


Absence Makes

by fadagaski



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: Community: 10_hurt_comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Natural Disasters, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Roman Empire is rocked by a series of natural disasters. With explanations ranging from Jewish terrorism to supernatural interference, Marcus and Esca are tasked by the Emperor himself to uncover the truth. But will they succeed, when it seems they themselves are tearing apart at the seams?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus was going to have serious words with Esca, once his freedman showed up again. _Cena_ had been called – an obedient little Greek slave sent to his room with demure eyes and a, "The master would be honoured if you and your companion would join him" – and Marcus was struggling to fasten his sandals, running late to a lavish dinner the likes of which would have eluded him before their journey north. It was an honour for him, and for Esca.

His leg cramped again. Marcus gritted his teeth against the pain, knuckles clenching white around the leather straps in his hand. Breath gusting through his nose like a winded horse, it seemed to take forever for the spasm to pass. Carefully, Marcus eased his leg straight, and flexed his bare foot. This was intolerable. He could hear the other guests, dignitaries from across Britannia, murmuring with each other around the table, but there was no way Marcus could get his sandal on alone, and he was loathe to call for help from the household slaves.

It took a great deal of twisting, stretching, and cursing to wedge his foot in the sandal and tie the straps. Marcus was sweating and leaning heavily against the wall by the end. More than ever before, he hated this country for its fickle weather that could lay him so low. Upon their arrival yesterday, it had been gloriously sunny, as if summer had come early. Today, there was a chill damp in the air that seemed to sink into Marcus' bones.

He didn't think he could be more mortified than he felt when shuffling to his couch, all the other guests lounging already, their eyes boring into him. Auxilius, owner of a vital silver mine and host for the evening, lay at the head of the table. Governor Urbicus was also present, his severe face mildly softened by the pale light of this country. To his right was Molacus, son and heir to the largest herd of cattle in Britannia. Sabinus sat next to him, a partner in the tin mines to the south west. To the right of the couch set aside for Marcus was legate Ennius of the Second Legion Augusta. To the left was an empty couch, meant for Esca. Such power and influence, and Marcus had been invited to their table. Marcus was _late_ to their table. He avoided their eyes as he settled with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Will your freedman not be joining us?" asked Auxilius, gesturing to the lavish spread. Every dish at the table was a testament to his wealth and generosity. Marcus smiled tightly at him.

"I thought it might be best that only citizens sit at this table, so I sent him on an errand," Marcus said, which was a complete lie. It had been an honour – a highly unusual one – for Auxilius to invite Esca also, one that had been denied at the dozen other dinners to which Marcus had been invited in the last three months since their return from the other side of the wall. For Esca to disappear without permission or even an explanation would be considered a slap in the face.

"It's probably for the best," Molacus agreed, picking at a tray of oysters. "I have free Britons amongst my household, and they all bear a greedy look in their eyes."

"Oh, come now. If that were true, then why did you free them?" Sabinus protested, and so the argument descended. Marcus kept out of it, content to split his attention between his wine cup and the flare of agony in his leg. He might have enjoyed speaking to Urbicus or Ennius, but his cheeks still burned with the shame of his entry, and neither man seemed inclined to submit their thoughts to the conversation.

His mind drifted, of course, to Esca, and where his wayward freedman might have gone. Neither of them had visited Isca Dumnoniorum before, but while Marcus was still recovering from yesterday's journey – his leg playing merry hell on the three-day ride west from Calleva – Esca had been curious. He must have gone out whilst Marcus napped, an escape from the ever-present pain.

Hours passed, and _cena_ dragged on. There was always a slave at Marcus' shoulder, ready to sweep away any bones he dropped or top up his cup when he gestured. Oil lamps were lit at the early onset of dark, and still Marcus' leg would not cease its restless twinging. When he thought no one was looking, he massaged it as best he could one-handed, digging his thumb viciously into the knotted muscle.

"Your leg troubles you?" Auxilius asked, loudly interrupting the talk of comparative slave prices.

"Just a little. I think we are due some bad weather soon," Marcus said through gritted teeth.

"My father used to be able to tell the turning of the seasons based on his old war wounds," Molacus said. Sabinus scoffed.

"I highly doubt he was so atuned." And they were off again.

"I can send for a healer, if you have need. Or a bath slave to give you a massage," Auxilius murmured, more discreetly this time, for which Marcus was grateful.

"No thank you," he declined with a shake of his head. "My freedman is familiar with this wound. He will tend to it upon his return."

"Where is your man? Surely an errand shouldn't take this long? Isca Dumnoniorum is not exacty a grand _colonia_!" He laughed at his own joke. Marcus flailed for an excuse for Esca's absence that was believable and wouldn't cause offence, but was saved by an almighty crack of thunder directly overhead that made everyone jump.

"Gods, that frightened me half to death!" Molacus exclaimed, hand over his heart.

"You are as easily startled as a woman," Sabinus taunted. Molacus' retort was drowned out by another rumble, reverberating beneath Marcus' ribcage.

"It's quite alright. These storms are perfectly normal," Auxilius reassured them.

"In Macedonia, perhaps, but not Britannia," Urbicus said, speaking for the first time at the meal. Marcus had to agree, and judging by the worried glances between the British slaves, unexpected storms in early spring were not an occurrence with which they were accustomed.

Overhead, the heavens opened, a sudden cacophony of noise against the red-tiled roof. Marcus heard the howl of the wind just before the doors blew in and snuffed the lamps out. In the darkness, the din was incredible. Marcus struggled from his couch, but could not orientate himself without sight or hearing. Lightning flashed through the door, illuminating for a split second the wild eyes of the slaves, Auxilius with his mouth open in speech, though Marcus could not hear a word.

A hand grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled away from the table. Another flash of lightning blinded him, the crack of thunder afterward ringing in his ears. Marcus' bad leg caught on a couch, and he went down against the cold marble floor with enough force to snap his teeth together. He tried to catch his breath, but the wind blew through so hard it swept all the air away.

The hand around his wrist was gone. Marcus lay alone on the floor. Rolling onto his back, he heard the roof tiles rip free, shattering like hundreds upon thousands of broken pots. The wind grew more fierce, carrying with it stinging rain and chunks of masonry. The table scraped over the marble, moved by the force of the wind only. Delicate plates shattered as they fell, but it was all swallowed up by the hiss of the rain.

More lightning flashed, this time directly overhead through a chink in the roof. Marcus crawled under the nearest couch, knocking his head in the dark but out of the way when heavy tiles shattered where he had been laying. The rain pounded down, spitting at his face.

Marcus couldn't hear anything over the roar of thunder and gale and rain. Debris whipped past his face, too fast to track. In the flash of lightning he could just make out a few people huddled in the corner, but was unable to tell who was who. His skin prickled against the cold wind, the puddle of water forming under and around him. Above, the hole in the roof grew bigger, like a hungry maw.

His heart skipped a beat when the couch skidded against the marble floor, and he grabbed hold of the legs. There was a bang, louder than even the wind. Half of the wall in front of him tumbled down, throwing plaster and stone into the air to be hurled by the wind. In the next flash of lightning, Marcus could see trees tumbling branch over root, and houses crumpling like papyrus in the face of such fury.

The couch skidded again, sliding Marcus further back. The wind tried to lift it, but Marcus held on as tight as he could. His legs hit the far wall just before the couch did. It felt like he was being crushed, the wind pressing him harder and harder into the ungiving stone. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, there was just the pressure on his chest and the solid oak legs under his fingers and the deafening noise as the storm raged and raged and raged.

It lasted hours. Marcus' arms ached with the strain of holding the couch down, and his body trembled with cold. It had seemed, for a brief time, that the storm had ended, but just as Marcus had mustered the strength to crawl out from under the couch, the rain returned with renewed vigour. Lightning crackled overhead almost without pause, and the growl of thunder rattled his teeth.

At least the constant force of the wind pressing him into the wall was gone. Marcus could breathe deeply, and watch in growing horror as the storm seemed to reverse itself, trees and houses and carts tumbling past in the opposite direction. He even thought he saw a bull, tossed about in the wind like wool. Marcus prayed that Esca was not out in that storm, that he had found shelter and would return to Marcus hale and whole.

Eventually, the wind died, and the rain lessened from stinging volley to steady downpour. Marcus could barely move, he was so cold. He cleared the area in front of his couch of accumulated debris – sharp pieces of tile, twigs and branches, chips of painted plaster – and wriggled out on his belly. It was fully dark. Marcus groped along the wall, tripping on ruined furniture and floating rubble until he accidentally kicked something that whimpered. He bent down, felt an arm, a shoulder, a face shrouded by long hair.

"Who are you?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Nessa," came the tremulous reply. He remembered her, the Greek slave girl who came to invite him to her master's table. Her skin was like ice when he gripped her arm, hauling her to her feet.

"The storm is passed," he said. "Let go your fear. We need light now. Fetch an oil lamp and a bow drill." She seemed to rally at his no-nonsense attitude, something he had cultured in his army years to great effect, and stumbled off into the dark. Marcus quickly lost sight of her.

With one hand on the wall, he picked his way further along, and came to another body. This one was not conscious, though by placing the back of his hand just above the mouth he could feel moist breath. He rolled the person onto their back so they wouldn't drown in the standing water, and moved on.

Nessa returned. He could hear her splashing through, grunting with the effort of shunting past overturned couches. "Over here," he called. She halted.

"Master?"

"Here, Nessa. Follow the sound of my voice." She did, and was soon standing next to him in the water.

"The lamps are all broken, but I found dry candles," she said.

"There is a couch to your left. It will be easier if you put them on there," Marcus said. When it sounded as though Nessa had done so, Marcus tried to kneel, but his leg buckled without warning and he grabbed at Nessa's arm to slow his fall. She was surprisingly strong, and did not topple immediately after him.

"Master? Are you injured?" she asked, voice pitched high with fright. He couldn't blame her, as he wouldn't want to be alone in this nightmare either. He wished Esca were with him.

"I'm fine," Marcus said, settling carefully on one leg, the other stretched out and useless. In the centre of the room the rain kept falling through the hole in the roof, but here in the corner it was still sheltered. Marcus hadn't lit a fire since before coming to Britannia, and much longer since he had done it in complete darkness. Still, when he picked up the bow drill, muscle memory took over and within a few minutes, one of the tallow candles was alight. Marcus used it to light a second, and handed it to Nessa. The orange glow cast strange shadows across her face. He could see a cut on her chin that had shed dribbles of blood down her neck, but as she didn't seem to have noticed, Marcus thought it wise not to mention it.

"Who has a light?" a voice called from the opposite corner. Marcus squinted, and could just see the shadow of a few bodies piled together.

"Nessa," he said, capturing her attention again. She looked at him with solemn eyes. "Check every body. If they are dead, leave them. If they are unconscious, make sure their faces are not in the water. If they are awake, make them comfortable. Do you understand?"

"Yes master," she said, nodding, and struggled to her feet to do his bidding. Marcus took a moment to breathe, bracing for the pain. If Esca were there, he wouldn't have had to give orders. Esca would have hoisted Marcus to his feet, and then gone to give what help he could.

He hoped Esca was alright.

Marcus and Nessa worked until the sky lightened, grey with backlit clouds. The rain stopped, at last, and the wind gentled. Despite the fickle support of his leg, Marcus hauled couches through the water, and – with Nessa's help – hoisted the great oak table off Sabinus and Molacus. The latter was unhurt but for a sprained shoulder, but Sabinus was unconscious; judging by the unnatural angle of his leg, it was probably a blessing.

Urbicus came to not long after Marcus had propped him against a wall, and despite the goose egg on his head, he was of great assistance in administering aid to the others. Ennius would not wake for all Nessa's prodding, and he was a big man, so they left him leaning against the rubble of the wall that had caved in. Auxilius, the host, was led by Nessa to one of the upright, but soaking wet, couches, where he sat in stunned silence. The slaves, too, floated around the villa with barely a sound. Marcus used what limited medical knowledge he could remember from the army to wrap cuts and scrapes, bandage sprained joints, and nick the lower lid of one poor slave whose black eye was intensely swollen and painful, so that the blood could drain away and vision return.

There were three dead. One unfortunate slave had been crushed under falling tiles, a nasty blow to the back of the head shattering bone. The other two had drowned, Marcus guessed after they were knocked unconscious. The household staff gathered around the bodies in the atrium with bowed heads and tears streaking their faces, though the silence persisted. It seemed to Marcus that the roar of the storm had sucked away all noise in the world afterward, and all that was left was the distant wash of waves against the shore.

"I'm going into the town to inspect the damage," Marcus told Urbicus, when he had done everything he could at the villa.

"I will go with you." Marcus might have argued, except one did not argue with the Governor of Britannia, and he would be glad of the company. He hoped Urbicus would not mind that Marcus was out to search for his wayward freedman.

Isca Dumnoniorum was a wreck. Sturdy Roman houses had been stripped of their signature red tiles. A great statue of the Divine Hadrian lay face down on the floor. There was a giant pine tree balanced precariously on the roof of the basilica. They had to step around the carcus of the bull Marcus had seen before, it's great belly speared by a branch as long and thick as Marcus' leg.

People began to emerge from the ruins, wearing identical expressions of shock. They, like Marcus, inspected what bodies had ended up in the road. He sighed with relief when each face was not Esca's, and he could move on to the next too-still body.

Marcus and Urbicus made a meandering circuit of the small town and ended up in the forum, where a crowd had gathered, the human instinct to reach out and know they were not alone driving them to flock together.

"Like lambs," Urbicus muttered, shaking his head. "Nothing will get done like this." With Marcus' shoulder as a support, Urbicus climbed atop the base where the Divine Hadrian statue had stood. The people turned to him with wide eyes. "I am Governor Urbicus!" he bellowed, a soldier's battlefield voice Marcus knew well. "People of Isca Dumnoniorum. The gods have vented their anger and moved on. Go back to your homes. Dig out those people who are trapped. Save what valuables and raw materials you can. Help your neighbours, for only together can we rebuild this great city."

The crowd murmured amongst each other, and then drifted away in groups, back to their homes as Urbicus told them. Marcus helped the Governor down, and they balanced unsteadily against each other.

"Marcus!"

He knew that voice. Turning, Marcus caught just a glimpse of Esca's relieved face before he was wrapped in a tight hug.

"Thank the gods," Esca murmured in his ear. Marcus gripped Esca just as firmly, almost giddy with the relief of Esca solid and warm in his arms, but he quickly became aware that Urbicus was right at his side, watching them. Clearing his throat, he pulled back, though he kept one hand on Esca's shoulder just in case he should try to disappear again.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his fear making him angry now. "You should have been at the villa!"

"Are you alright?" Esca asked, ignoring Marcus' question. "You look like you lost a fight with that bull. What happened?"

"You could have died!" Marcus shouted, fingers twisting in Esca's tunic, and was gratified to see the flare of surprise in Esca's wide eyes. He shook him a little, to emphasise his point. "You could have died, and I wouldn't have known."

Esca stepped forward into Marcus' personal space. For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if Esca was going to kiss him, not as friends but as lovers, in the forum with everyone there, with Urbicus right there. But Esca placed a hand against Marcus' cheek, and pulled their foreheads together, and waited. Marcus breathed, smelt the rain and the bull and Esca, and let his fury fade as the storm had done.

"I'm here now," Esca said. Marcus nodded once, and Esca stepped back again.

"I take it this is Esca, the lost freedman," Urbicus said.

"Yes. Governor Urbicus, meet Esca. Esca, Governor Urbicus," Marcus said. He watched in bafflement as a shiver seemed to work up Esca's spine, and his face froze into a blank visage he hadn't seen in all the months since they had returned from Caledonia. Urbicus offered his arm in the usual shake. Esca stared at it, then at Urbicus, before slowly extending his own arm. He seemed to be in a trance, only his arm moving mechanically. Urbicus nodded once, business-like and oblivious, and shifted his attention to Marcus.

"I will return to the villa to offer what assistance I can," he said, and walked off, weaving down the road between tree trunks and overturned carts.

"What was that all about?" Marcus demanded of Esca as soon as Urbicus was out of earshot. Esca did not answer, too busy watching the governor leave. "Esca!" Blue eyes snapped to his. "You have shamed me. You refused a personal invitation to dine at Auxilius' table. You just insulted Governor Urbicus. You were overly familiar with me in a public place. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Esca glared at him. "I would not eat with the murderer of the Brigantes if you beat me bloody!" he growled. Marcus blinked at him.

"What?"

"Who do you think ordered the attacks on my people? Who do you think led the legions?" Esca spit on the floor in disgust. Marcus swallowed against the guilt that threatened to rise up in him. It was often this way with Esca; he could understand how he felt the way he did, but the Roman in him couldn't condone it. If only Esca had said something – but then, Esca would not be Esca if he revealed half of what he was thinking. Sighing, Marcus let the matter drop.

"Come," he said instead. "We will pack what little hasn't been destroyed and leave these poor souls to it." It looked like Esca might argue more, but at Marcus' gentle tug his limbs unlocked, anger draining away, and he accompanied Marcus without complaint.

In the full light, the damage to the villa was horrifying. Marcus was amazed only three people had died. The south-facing walls had all collapsed, and there was very little roof left to speak of. Not a tree was standing in the sprawling garden. The slaves had begun sorting out the furniture into two piles: salvagable, and scrap. As they entered the atrium, he spotted Nessa moving around makeshift beds where the injured had been placed. She nodded in greeting to him as they passed.

The room set aside for Marcus and Esca was mostly undamaged, though rainwater had flooded in to soak Esca's unused pallet. Once within its privacy, Marcus reached for Esca and was grabbed in return, and they kissed open-mouthed and messy. Threading his fingers through Esca's hair, he tilted Esca's head back so he could delve deeper, tongue dominating Esca's in a dance that sent shivers down to his toes. His lips travelled away, along Esca's jaw and down his neck, nipping with angry teeth.

"Marcus!" Esca gasped, gripping at Marcus' sodden tunic, pulling him closer.

"Don't do that again," he growled against Esca's throat, and bit down hard.

"Gods!" Esca cried, hands scrabbling at Marcus' clothing, hips thrusting up to rub his cock against Marcus' thigh. Marcus urged him backwards, mouth still sucking bruises in a trail up Esca's throat, until the backs of his legs met the bed and they tumbled down. Esca writhed, his legs wrapping around Marcus' waist, his whole body undulating beneath him.

Normally Marcus liked to go slow, slower than Esca perhaps wanted him to, but he was angry now, angry that he had been frightened before, because Esca had been missing and he could have been dead and Marcus wouldn't have known. It made him grit his teeth and bear down, their cocks rubbing against each other through wool with painful friction.

"Marcus, gods, do something," Esca babbled, hands pulling up Marcus' tunic to scratch and claw at the skin beneath. Marcus spat in his palm, leaned on one elbow, and shoved his hand down the front of Esca's braccae to grasp his cock, hot and leaking. "Yes!"

"You're not allowed to disappear like that," Marcus said as he pumped. His grip was too hard, and there wasn't enough space to move his hand properly, but Esca thrust up all the same, his fingers like talons leaving red welts on Marcus' back. "Not ever. Do you understand?"

"Ah, Marcus –" Esca choked, his thrusts frantic, and he came when Marcus twisted his too-tight grip over the head, capturing Esca's seed in his hand. He kissed Esca again, worried at his lower lip until it was pulsing and swollen, and stole the breath panting from his lungs.

Slowly their kisses gentled, until Esca was boneless against the mattress. Marcus rolled onto his side to give his arm a much needed break, wiping his hand on his ruined tunic in a white smear. Esca turned his head to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips red with kisses.

"It is _Imbolc_ ," Esca said, still a bit breathless. At Marcus' puzzled look, he elaborated: "The first day of spring. It is a holy day for my people. We give thanks to the goddess Brigantia, and pray for a good year."

"Were you always planning on attending this festival?" Marcus asked at length.

"No. I came across it by accident, and it reminded me ..." Esca trailed off, eyes distant and shadowed as they always were at thoughts of the past. Marcus didn't know what to say; he was still annoyed that Esca had embarrassed him in front of such influential people, but the rage had passed, and left him feeling tired and empty.

"We need to pack our things," he said, and sat up.

"Wait, wait." Esca lifted himself also, and gave a pointed look at the tent in Marcus' lap. "Surely you want that seeing to?"

"I'm fine," Marcus muttered. Mostly, he was exhausted, a stressful, sleepless night coupled with hard physical labour, and the pall of fear for Esca hanging over it all.

A hand landed on his shoulder, kneading at the tight muscle there. He shivered when fingers ghosted over the back of his neck. They returned, pressing harder, until Marcus moaned aloud. Esca shifted to kneel behind him, bringing both hands to bear on Marcus' slumped shoulders. They dug into stubborn knots, smoothing away the tension Marcus carried there, until he was leaning back against Esca, too boneless to care.

Esca wrapped his arms around Marcus' broad shoulders, his pointed chin digging into his collarbone. Marcus let his head fall back. He almost didn't notice Esca's creeping hands until they were undoing the ties to his braccae, peeling the wool back until his cock sprang free.

"There now," he said, and wrapped one callused hand around the base. Marcus made a choked sound deep in his throat, his hips thrusting up of their own volition. They both watched as clear liquid dribbled down his shaft, slicking Esca's fingers. Esca pumped once, twice, smearing precome over Marcus' hot flesh. He thrust up again into Esca's slightly loose grip.

"Don't tease," he said, voice like gravel with exhaustion and lust.

"I won't," Esca said. True to his word, his fingers tightened, sliding over Marcus' cock from root to head. Every other thrust Esca's calluses caught against the sensitive head of Marcus' dick. His other hand cradled Marcus' balls, rolling the sack across his fingers, then pressing into the soft skin behind.

"Ah! Esca!" Marcus cried out, his hips lifting erratically as Esca's hand moved.

"Hush," Esca urged, and added a twist to every stroke that had Marcus writhing against him. "Gods, Marcus," Esca murmured in his ear, "seeing you like this – do you have any idea what you look like?" Marcus didn't want to imagine; he could barely focus on breathing with his cock straining for extra friction, every part of him fixed on Esca's rough hands and the magic they worked.

"I'm close," he gasped.

"Come then." Esca slid his thumb through the slit at the head of Marcus' cock on the next stroke, and that was it – Marcus came like thunder, his hoarse cry swallowed in Esca's kiss as his orgasm pulsed over his braccae and tunic and Esca's hand.

Marcus drifted in the afterglow, his cock cradled by Esca even as it softened. When they were together like this, nothing between them but shared warmth, Marcus was at his most content. He sighed softly, and let his full weight lean against Esca, knowing that Esca would bear it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Roman Empire is rocked by a series of natural disasters. With explanations ranging from Jewish terrorism to supernatural interference, Marcus and Esca are tasked by the Emperor himself to uncover the truth. But will they succeed, when it seems they themselves are tearing apart at the seams?

The wool of his tunic had gone scratchy as it dried, and it was that which brought Marcus out of his doze. Opening his eyes, he twisted his head to see that Esca had also slipped into a light sleep, still kneeling behind Marcus with pointy chin gouging into the meat of Marcus' shoulder.

"Esca," he murmured, nudging him gently with an elbow. "Esca, wake up."

"Hmm?"

"We need to pack."

"Hmm. In a moment."

"No. Now." Marcus moved to sit up straight, but Esca's arms tensed around him, keeping him pulled flush to Esca's chest. "Esca," Marcus sighed, grumpy.

"In a moment," Esca repeated. Huffing, Marcus allowed him this luxury. Exhaustion nagged at him, and he fought sleep valiantly under the soft stroke of Esca's hands up and down his arms. "I was worried," Esca confessed, a secret whisper in Marcus' ear. Marcus grabbed at his hands, enfolding them in his own with interlocking fingers. At least they were here now, he thought. No harm done.

The awkward bend to his spine began to take its toll, and Marcus flexed forward. "Enough now," he said, breaking free of Esca's hold. His skin itched beneath the damp wool of his tunic. He wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of himself. "I need to change," he said emphatically.

Esca clambered off the bed to rummage through their gear – still perched on the table, spared the wrath of the gods – while Marcus wrestled out of his tunic and braccae. He stood shivering in the damp chill, feet submerged in two inches of icy water, and thought wistfully of the hot bath at his uncle's villa.

Esca approached him with a towel. He batted away Marcus' arm, squatting at eye level with Marcus' softened penis, and began to dry him. The circular movements of his hand, the firm pressure, brought blood and heat flooding back to Marcus' legs, causing them to itch even more. His fingers twitched with the need to scratch, but long winter months in Germania had taught him the futility of that, and so he resisted. Esca worked his way up from groin to belly to chest, his face furrowed with intensity as he worked.

"You are injured here," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over a few shallow cuts just above Marcus' navel. They were pink, and a little sore, but they had hardly bled, and would cause him no trouble.

"It's nothing," he said. Esca's mouth pinched slightly, but he didn't comment as he moved behind Marcus. The towel was noticeably damp as it moved across his shoulders and down his back. He shivered when Esca patted dry the sensitive flesh behind is balls, but his touch was fleeting.

Esca stood in front of him again. "Lower your head," he instructed. Marcus nearly lost his balance when the towel blocked the room from view. He gripped Esca's waist to anchor himself when Esca began to rub at his short hair, thumbs nestling in the divots above his hipbones as if they were made to fit there.

When Esca was apparently satisfied, he stepped back, pulling the towel off Marcus' head with a rasp. Marcus blinked at the sudden light. He narrowed his eyes when he caught Esca's mischievous smirk.

"What?"

"Nothing," Esca said, and tried to wipe his expression, unsuccessfully. Suspicious, Marcus felt first at his face, then at his hair – which was sticking up in every direction. He probably looked like a newborn calf, cowlick and all.

"Ha ha," he muttered, scowling. His palms were still damp enough to flatten his unruly hair, or at least he hoped.

"Perhaps if your hair were longer it would be less inclined to float off your head," Esca teased, and threw a tunic at Marcus' face before he could respond.

Not much had changed in the villa when Marcus and Esca ventured from their room, newly dressed and braced for a difficult journey back to Calleva. Auxilius was far more alert than the last time Marcus had seen him. He was supervising the rescue of his property when they approached to take their leave.

"I am sorry we part under such awful conditions," Auxilius said, gripping first Marcus' arm, and then Esca's. "Thank you for all your help today," he addressed Marcus. "Nessa has told me of your actions. You are to be commended."

"It needed to be done," Marcus said demurely. "Farewell, and good luck."

They picked their way over the rubble of the southern exterior wall and around the side of the villa to where the stable had been. Esca stopped so suddenly Marcus nearly barrelled into him. He looked up, annoyance quickly subsiding in the face of the sheer destruction ravaged by last night's storm. The stable, a temporary wooden building, was no more than splinters stretching down the length of the garden. Marcus dreaded to think what had happened to their horses.

"That complicates things," he said.

"No, wait. Listen," Esca said, head cocked to the side. Marcus followed his lead, closing his eyes to better parse out the different sounds: waves on the distant beach, the clatter of dead twigs tumbling in the breeze, and there – an equine snort.

"Surely not!" he said, laughing. Esca grinned at him, then tore off down the long garden with enviable speed. Marcus followed slowly, careful of his leg in the slippery mud. He watched as Esca cornered Lampas against the far wall, the big roan dancing on his hooves as nimbly as a colt. Celer stood to the side, waiting to see what Lampas would do, as always. Lampas seemed to settle when Esca got a hand on his shoulder, and the two stood quietly for a long time. When Lampas was calm and docile again, Esca led him up the waterlogged garden, one hand under his chin giving the illusion of a rope to stop Lampas running off. Celer trotted along obediently behind.

"They were lucky not to suffer the same fate as the bull," Marcus commented when Esca was in earshot. Lampas spooked at his voice, rearing up with the whites of his eyes showing.

"Hey, hey now," Esca soothed, keeping one hand wrapped in his mane. "Don't be an ass."

Marcus hobbled towards them, and was relieved when Lampas did not flinch when he stroked along his neck. "Dumb animal," he said affectionately.

"Are you going to be able to ride with that leg?" Esca asked him. Marcus frowned, bending to knead at his thigh.

"I'll be fine," he said, defensive. When Esca opened his mouth to argue, Marcus cut in: "It isn't like we have much of a choice. We can't stay here." Esca's jaw shut with an audible click.

"So be it," he muttered. Marcus felt the well of anger bubbling in him again. It would be so easy to lash out, start an argument, but this wasn't the time nor the place. They had to get moving if they stood any hope of reaching the first roadside inn on the way to Calleva.

"I don't suppose the tack survived as well as the horses?" he asked instead. Esca smirked without real humour.

"In the tree yonder," he said, gesturing with a nod of his head to a birch in the adjacent garden, its roots in the air – and what looked like a bridle knotted in amongst them. It would take more effort than it was worth to retrieve it.

"Second plan, then," Marcus said. "There must be rope in the house. I'll get some."

"No, wait, Marcus." Esca grabbed onto his wrist, halting his turn. "You shouldn't strain your leg too much. Stay here, I'll find the rope." Scowling, Marcus wrenched his arm free.

"And if the horses spook again, what then? I can't go running after them. You stay, keep them calm. I'll find the rope."

"Marcus –" But Marcus was done listening. He slipped and squelched his way back to the villa with Esca's eyes burning a hole between his shoulder blades, and did not look back.

He found Nessa in the atrium still, changing a bloodied bandage for one of the boy slaves. She looked up at his approach, and made to stand, though Marcus waved her back down. He waited until she finished the boy's dressing and sent him on his way before approaching her.

"My companion and I are leaving, but we have need of rope. Is there any here we can have?" he asked. Nessa frowned in thought.

"Rope, master?"

"Our horses survived the night, but the bridles didn't," he explained shortly. The light dawned in her eyes, and she scurried off with barely a 'by your leave'.

A fine rain began to fall as Marcus waited, generating a chorus of moans from those in the atrium, injured and able-bodied alike. It soon soaked through Marcus' tunic, dripping from the ends of his hair into his eyes and down his back. He suppressed a shiver.

"Here, master," Nessa said breathlessly, brushing her wet hair back with impatience. In her hand was several feet of coiled rope, damp and prickly when Marcus took it from her.

"Just what we need," he said. She blushed when he offered her a smile in thanks; slave or not, she had worked hard without complaint, with so much more left to do. "Be strong," he said in parting.

Esca was where Marcus had left him, scowling up at the heavens with such fierce intensity it was a wonder the clouds didn't flee in terror. He looked relieved when he spotted Marcus limping back from the villa, rope over one shoulder.

"That should work," was all he said. Marcus kept hold of Lampas while Esca fashioned some kind of head collar. There would be no bit, which would make Lampas even more spirited than usual, but at least his rider would have some measure of control. Now all that was left to argue about was who that rider was going to be.

Normally, Marcus rode Lampas. He was the bigger horse of the two, and could better carry Marcus' weight. Marcus had ridden Lampas to Isca Dumnoniorum, and by all rights he should be the one to ride him home.

But he well knew what Esca would say, and despite the wound to his pride, it was the truth: if Lampas, already on edge after the night's events, spooked on the road, Marcus was more likely to fall off than Esca, and then they would be without a horse, and Marcus' leg would not thank him for it.

"There. That will hold for today at least. We should try to get proper tack at the inn," Esca said. Lampas snorted, and favoured Esca with a baleful look. "Now," he turned to Marcus, "I suggest –"

"You should ride him," Marcus interrupted, mostly because the mingled surprise and annoyance on Esca's face would never cease to entertain him. "With he in such high spirits, and my leg, it makes more sense for me to take Celer. At least to the inn." Esca glared at him; he knew exactly Marcus' thoughts, and was unamused.

"It seems the storm blew some sense through your ears," he said, scathing. Marcus scowled at him.

Esca led Lampas around the ruined villa, Celer tagging along faithfully behind, and Marcus brought up the rear. Auxilius' pile of ruined possessions had grown, with more slaves carrying things out of the house to add to it. The storm had been massive, and devastating; Marcus sent up a quick prayer that it had expended all its fury before reaching his uncle's home in Calleva.

Displaying an agility Marcus could only dream of, Esca vaulted onto Lampas' back. Marcus had to lead Celer to a pile of rubble that he used as an impromptu mounting block, and clambered on gracelessly.

It was decidedly uncomfortable without a saddle. Celer was built for speed, and therefore didn't have the broad back nor the padding that Lampas carried. Marcus grunted, shifting until he was closer to comfortable than he had been, and resolutely ignored Esca's knowing smirk. His leg twitched in warning; this was going to be a long trip.

"Are you ready?" Esca asked.

"Wait, Aquila!" came Urbicus' barking voice from the other side of the rubble. Esca seemed to shut down before Marcus' eyes as Urbicus approached them, body stiff and face a mask.

Marcus turned to the governor. The goose egg on his forehead had darkened to the colour of aubergine. It was a testament to the hard-headed soldier that he hadn't been laid low by such a strike.

"What's the trouble, Governor?" Marcus asked. It was rude of him to remain on his horse, but he was loathe to dismount only to have to clamber up again like a fat, ungainly child.

"I would ask a favour of you, if you permit it," Urbicus said. He stood at Marcus' knee, one hand on Celer's neck, stroking in that absent-minded way familiar to all horse riders.

"It would be my honour," Marcus said, leaning down to hear better.

"You are heading to Calleva, yes?" Urbicus asked. At Marcus' nod, he continued: "Please act as my eyes and ears on the road. Last night was no ordinary storm, and I fear it will have wrought much havoc to southern Britannia."

"I fear that also," Marcus agreed.

"Rome must be made aware of what has happened here, from a reliable witness." Urbicus paused, and gave Marcus a meaningful look. "The Emperor needs to know."

"You want me to go to Rome?" Marcus asked, eyes wide. Urbicus nodded once.

"I know it is a great imposition. At any other time I would go myself, but if what I suspect is true, then the legions will be needed, and so will I." He looked Marcus directly in the face. "You will be handsomely rewarded for your trouble," he said.

"That isn't necessary," Marcus said. Inside, a well of joy burst forth. He could hardly maintain the proper tone of respect when he added: "Of course I will go to Rome on your behalf. I would be glad to." Urbicus smiled in relief.

"Thank you. You are a good man, Aquila. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last," he said, and offered his arm. Marcus gripped it firmly. "Good riding to you, from here to Calleva and beyond."

Esca sat waiting on the road outside the villa. He was dwarfed by the size of Lampas; Marcus could just picture how ridiculous he looked astride Celer. When he drew up beside Esca, he realised they were actually of a height.

"What did he want?" Esca asked without inflection. In a moment of great foresight, Marcus thought it best not to reveal the truth here, when Esca would likely descend into a rage in front of all the residents of Isca Dumnoniorum, with no consideration for decorum.

"We should hurry," he said, glancing at pregnant rainclouds rolling in from the ocean. "The morning is almost gone, and we have a long way to travel." Esca's mouth thinned, but he urged Lampas to move with only a click of his tongue, rope reins held securely in his hand. Celer plodded contently along behind. All Marcus had to do was keep his cloak wrapped around to ward off the chill air, maintain his balance on Celer's back, and hope the rain held off.

It quickly became apparent that the gods' wrath of the previous night had not been targeted solely at Isca Dumnoniorum. Roadside villages of thatched houses and cattle had become little more than scattered firewood, the residents ghosting through the wreckage of their homes with blank and bloodied faces. Great trees had been tossed across the road like twigs, which slowed their progress considerably. Celer stumbled, and Marcus had to scrabble to hold on.

"Are you alright?" Esca called back.

"Fine," Marcus said shortly. Once he had wriggled back into a balanced position, he nudged Celer on and hoped the dumb animal would have the good sense to watch where he was going, seeing as Marcus couldn't guide him. He hoped even harder when they had to ford through a flooded part of the road.

They didn't stop, and barely spoke, until they reached the inn. By then it had been dark for many long hours. The way was lit only by Esca's candle; Marcus thought it a miracle that Celer hadn't gone hoof over tail, and taken his rider with him. At least they had outpaced the rain, the smell of which was heavy in the air. But Marcus was hungry now, and he ached with exhaustion and cold. He could almost have slept on Celer's back, if his horse didn't keep tripping over branches that were invisible in the dark.

"Greetings, masters," said the woman who came to see them in the courtyard. Her accent was highly unusual; Marcus couldn't place it. "I am Aloli. If you have need of a place to stay tonight, I will show you to a room."

"Yes please," Esca replied, sliding off Lampas with more difficulty than he had mounted him. It had been a long day on the road, without even a saddle for comfort. Marcus, fully expecting his bad leg to give out completely, slipped from Celer's back onto his good leg only. Aloli whistled once, and a small figure shuffled from the dark stables towards them.

"Seth will tend your horses. Come," she said. Esca came to wrap an arm around Marcus' waist in support. Marcus grit his teeth, but didn't argue, as his leg sent up a flare of agony at the very first step. Together they hobbled into the warmth of the inn.

"We have but one room," Aloli told them as they climbed the stairs. In the dim candlelight, Marcus could see she was an older woman, with very dark skin and thick black hair curled tightly to her skull. "Two more are taken by travellers like yourselves, and the fourth suffered damage in the storm."

"Was it bad even here?" Esca asked.

"Indeed, master. I have seen much of the world, but never a storm like that." She drew back the curtain to their room. "If it please you, I can fetch a pallet."

"It is a chill night. We will share a bed as brothers do," Esca told her. She bowed, unsmiling, and left them.

Brushing off Esca's arm, Marcus hopped to the bed and collapsed against it with a deep sigh. His leg twitched and throbbed, and he massaged it as best he could with one hand whilst refusing to move from his prone position. He was too tired even to recognise how hungry he was. Dimly he heard Esca pottering around the room, but didn't really focus on him until there were hands at his feet.

"What –?" He came to suddenly, lifting his head off the mattress. Esca glanced at him over the slope of Marcus' thighs.

"Hush. Just relax," he said. Deft fingers loosened the straps of each boot before easing them off. Marcus let his head fall back again. He groaned when Esca began to knead his aching feet, flexing the toes back and forth, then pressing against the ball of each foot, the arch, the heel, massaging until Marcus felt like a puddle of flesh with no bones to piece him together.

"Esca," he said on a sigh. Sleep already pulled at him with siren song.

"There we go," Esca murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Marcus tensed, and sat up. "I'm not a child," he warned. Esca leaned back on his haunches, blinking in surprise.

"I never said you were." They stared at each other for a long moment, a battle of wills without words. Marcus' leg seized but he ignored it with gritted teeth. Finally, Esca huffed an annoyed breath and stood up. "It's time for bed. We have another hard day ahead of us."

They stripped to their underclothes and climbed under the blankets in silence. Marcus blew out the sole candle on the bedside table, and in the dark allowed a grimace of pain to twist his face. He almost regretted stopping Esca. It was just so aggravating, that his leg could go weeks without incident, but a change in weather or strenuous activity would have him limping and miserable. Esca's problem was that he saw too much; there was no privacy between them since their return from the north. Marcus couldn't hide anything.

An arm wrapped around his middle, and Esca shuffled until he was pressed flush against Marcus' back. Then Marcus knew he was forgiven. He fell asleep with Esca's breath a tickle against his neck, and their fingers interlocked on his belly.

Esca was gone from the bed when Marcus awoke in the morning, though it was barely light outside. Despite being in Britannia for a year, and Germania before that, the strange days this far north still confused his internal clock. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand, Marcus rolled out of bed and was relieved that his leg gave no twinge whatsoever. He dressed in yesterday's clothes and made his way downstairs.

Esca was alone in the common dining area, bread roll in hand. Marcus sat next to him on the bench. A girl brought him a roll of his own, and a cup of water. She favoured Aloli but for her lighter skin and a strong Roman nose. Like her mother, she did not smile at them.

"What did Urbicus want?" Esca asked, by way of greeting. At the scent of food, Marcus' body seemed to remember how famished it was. He chose to eat rather than answer, swallowing his roll in a just a few quick bites. He gestured for the girl to bring him another, which he ate just as swiftly, and washed it down with water. "Marcus," Esca pressed.

Marcus felt better already, which was just as well, because he knew this would not be a pretty conversation. Steeling himself, he faced Esca head on. "I'm going to Rome," he said. Esca lifted both eyebrows.

"Rome?"

"Yes. The Governor requested it."

"Why?"

"He trusts me," Marcus said, with some pride. "He asked me to go directly to the Emperor, to inform him of the storm. Britannia will need extra support in order to recover. The mines, especially, are vital to Rome." It felt fantastic to have a purpose, a job to complete, some measure of business for the empire. Since his discharge, he had wandered lost through Britannia. His heart treasured Urbicus' words.

Esca stared at him, and then at the bread roll being picked apart by his restless fingers. Marcus watched from the corner of his eye for a hint of Esca's thoughts, but found none. As ever, Esca hid behind a guarded mask.

After a heavy silence, Esca put down his ruined bread roll. "So be it," was all he said, and stood up.

"Esca?"

"See what food you can buy from Amisi, the girl." Esca nodded towards Aloli's daughter. "I will pack our things. With any luck, the road will be clearer as we head further inland."

In short order, they were back in the courtyard. Marcus had managed to haggle for a few rolls and some bitter apples, and even a couple of thick blankets to put on the horses. Lampas and Celer were led to them by Seth, who turned out to be a dwarf rather than a child, as Marcus had assumed in the darkness.

"Masters," he greeted in a gravelly voice, the same accent as Aloli tinting his Latin. "My daughter Amisi informs me you are in need of tack. I have no bridle to sell to you, nor saddles that would fit such broad backs, but you may have more rope if you wish."

"Thank you," Marcus said, and paid him.

They were away soon after, the journey considerably easier with blankets and a head collar. Esca set a brisk pace on Lampas. Celer matched it easily enough, though Marcus worried that his heavier weight would tell on him.

It did. By the afternoon, Celer was sweating despite the chilly temperature, and Marcus was tired of kicking him to greater speed. "Esca, stop!" he called. He walked Celer up to Lampas, and the two nudged heads. "I am too heavy for Celer to keep this pace for the rest of the day. He will be twice as slow tomorrow. Either we walk, or we swap." Esca bit his lip, eyeing first the horse, and then the sky, dark grey with promised rain.

"Good feed in summer would solve this problem," he muttered.

"Well, it isn't summer. Let us swap. Lampas seems much calmer, and my leg has not troubled me all day."

Marcus was able to boost himself onto Lampas' back without help. For a time they walked side by side, sharing bread and apples between them and the horses. "Seth was very strange," Esca commented around a mouthful of food.

"He is a dwarf. Have you not seen one before?" At Esca's shake of the head, Marcus continued: "Often they fight in the ring, or entertain at circuses and high-class dinners. I hear they are worshipped in Aegyptus. That is probably his homeland."

They reached the second inn well after dark again, but not as late as the night before. The horses were exhausted, and seemed glad to be led away into the stable. Marcus' legs felt shaky, like there was a hum in his bones from hours spent over running hooves.

They caught the tail end of _cena_ , some kind of mutton stew with winter vegetables, and enough sour wine to ease the ache from Marcus' limbs. Esca came back from arranging their rooms with the innkeeper, saying, "I told him we were short of money and could only take the one."

"I'm sure he thinks most highly of us," Marcus groused. Esca ignored him.

They slept that night on a bed filled with pins, or so it felt. Esca fell asleep instantly, nose tucked into the curve of Marcus' neck. Marcus tried not to move for fear of being prickled again. It was a long night.

The road from the inn to Calleva was mostly clear of large debris. The storm must have blown itself out, as Esca had predicted, though there was enough decimation to prove the wind and rain had been strong here. Marcus had new hope that his uncle's villa had survived intact, and it was hope that was rewarded when, from the final hill slope into town, the red roof by the river appeared whole and undamaged.

No one came to meet them in the atrium. Marcus dismounted, and listened for any sound from inside. There was none.

"I'll sort the horses. Go find your uncle," Esca said. A part of Marcus wanted to take care of Lampas himself, if only because Esca had told him not to, but his concern won out.

The tiles were warm underfoot, so at least they had not been gone long. There was even food prepared in the kitchen, and no sign of trouble in any of the rooms. Satisfied that his uncle was on some errand in Calleva, Marcus joined Esca in the stable.

They remained the only two in the house until Marcus' uncle and Stephanos returned for late _cena_. Their faces were grave, but Aquila smiled to see his nephew. They gripped arms warmly.

"It is good to see you safe and well," Aquila said. "Traders have come from the south with horror stories about the storm."

"It was terrifying," Marcus admitted. "Isca Dumnoniorum is little more than rubble." Over the evening meal, Marcus detailed the stinging rain and the violent winds and the bull flung about like a leaf.

"It's a miracle you came out alive," Aquila said.

"There's more. Governor Urbicus has requested that I journey to Rome, to give a full account of the storm to the Emperor." Aquila blinked in surprise.

"Did he now? That is very interesting." He seemed pensive though, sipping at his wine with a thoughtful frown. Marcus waited until he could wait no more.

"I would have you speak your mind," he prompted. Aquila gave Marcus a long look.

"I know better than to try to stop you, after my experience last time," he said. Marcus winced, remembering his harsh words to a man who had shown him nothing but kindness. "It is an honour I know you have already accepted, and I'm glad for you. This sedentary life, dinners and minor trade, it hasn't suited you. Any man can see you are bored, taken too young out of the army to be glad of the peace offered to old men like me." He laughed self-deprecatingly. "I ask only that you take care. Your leg is twice-wounded, and it is a long journey. Will you take Esca with you?" Marcus was surprised at the question, though he divined the hidden meaning: would he take an assistant, his crutch? He grimaced.

"Esca will go where he wants with no input from me," he said. "If he chooses to stay, I will travel alone, and suffer no more for it."

Aquila chuckled low in his throat with no humour. "Such pride," he muttered.

"Should I not be proud?" Marcus challenged, and was favoured with a weary glance.

"Marcus, you are your father's son. You will be whatever you will be, no matter what I think of it." With a sigh, Aquila rose to his feet, grunting in the way old men do when their bodies have grown tired. "I bid you good night," he said. Stephanos left at his master's heel.

Alone at the table, Marcus pushed away his plate and put his face in his hands. His stomach was in knots, and his mind ran round in circles. He needed to prepare for the journey, arrange new tack for Lampas and pack his belongings, but ahead of that long list was the problem of Esca.

If Esca came with him, he would be there as companion and bodyguard and nursemaid. It would be like the journey north again, under each other's feet, sharing food and warmth, pain and glory. If Esca did not come, Marcus would be without him for the first time since that day at the gladiator ring. Marcus was honest enough with himself to know he would always wonder what Esca was doing back in Britannia, if he was waiting for him, or if he had embraced a new freedom without Marcus there. The very idea burned him up.

As if summoned by the call of Marcus' thoughts, Esca appeared beside him. "Marcus," he whispered, his hand coming to rest on the back of Marcus' neck, a warm and welcome weight pulling him back from the edge of sleep. "Come to bed." His fingers squeezed gently.

Marcus allowed himself to be drawn away from the table, through the dark corridors of the villa to the room he shared with Esca. They kissed, a soft press of mouths, little more than lip to lip. Esca's fingers slid under Marcus' tunic, danced over the skin of his belly, then up. Marcus lifted his arms and the tunic came off. Esca pressed little kisses to the flesh there, following the wings of his collarbones down to the sternum, then further still. Struck dumb by lust and tiredness, Marcus could only stand and watch as Esca went gracefully to his knees, deft fingers picking at the laces of his braccae until his cock nudged free.

In the beginning, it had taken no small amount of coaxing from Esca for Marcus to allow this. It ran counter to everything Roman in him, but Esca loved it, and had argued at length about the value of Roman custom for a Briton. In the end, Marcus had capitulated when he realised he had been Esca's slave, and was still a Roman now. No one but the Seal People knew of the power Esca held over him.

When Esca opened his mouth over the head of Marcus' cock and tongued at the slit, Marcus had to admit that he loved it too. He stroked Esca's hair through his fingers, still short in the Roman style but enough to hold on when Esca sank down, taking Marcus' prick to the root in a wave of blistering wet heat. The hint of teeth scraped against the underside as Esca sucked back up to the head. Marcus choked, fingers clenching in Esca's hair, and watched as his cock disappeared again. Esca's lips were stretched wide around his girth, until he nosed at Marcus' pubic hair, swallowing around Marcus' length.

Esca took his sweet time, tongue following the vein on the underside and cheeks hollowing as he pulled back, until spit was dribbling from the corner of his mouth and Marcus couldn't help the involuntary thrust of his hips. He could feel his orgasm building, a slow burn at the base of his spine that spread through his balls into his cock. "Esca," he gasped, hips twitching against Esca's hands. Esca hummed around his length, a deep vibration that shot through every nerve in his cock, and then he was coming, riding the wave of pleasure as he spilled into Esca's willing mouth, fingers tangled in hair, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Marcus was wobbly on his legs when Esca helped strip him off his braccae. He tumbled into bed, exhaustion like lead dragging him into sleep. Esca climbed in soon after, stripped bare, and rolled so he was pressed against Marcus' back. His cock was a hot brand against the cleft of Marcus' arse, but though Marcus waited – for a word, a sign, something – Esca did nothing more than place a tender kiss to the top knob of Marcus' spine.

"Esca, what –?"

"Hush. Go to sleep."

"But –"

"It's fine, Marcus. I'm too tired. Sleep."

Marcus didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke it was because of a vicious cramp in his leg that had him cursing to every god imaginable. Esca was not beside him, though a rustle from the pallet in the corner was enough to pinpoint his location.

"Marcus? Are you well"?

"My leg," Marcus gritted out, his fingers digging into the flesh as it to wrench the damaged nerves out. Esca padded over to the bed and climbed back on. He knocked Marcus' hands out of the way, replacing them with his own. The heat generated by the massage he began quickly loosened some of the knots. Marcus went boneless against the mattress when Esca dug deeper. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since they went to bed, and in the dark Esca had to work by touch alone to gauge where the pain was centred. Marcus kept his jaw clenched against any noise, and tried not to dwell on just how useless he felt, pinned in his bed by his own body until his freedman could convince it to let go the agony.

At last it eased. Marcus straightened his leg with a deep sigh. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead; he wiped them away before they could cool and set him to shivering in the chill spring night air. He could not see Esca, but in reaching out he found the smooth skin of his back, and stroked it with his thumb. "Why did you sleep in the corner?" he asked. Esca lay down next to him, head pillowed on Marcus' arm, breath tickling Marcus' shoulder.

"You kicked me out," Esca said.

"I did?" Marcus dragged his fingers slowly up and down Esca's spine, chasing the shivers he caused.

"Hmm. You were dreaming. I was on the floor before I even knew what was going on."

"I'm sorry," Marcus said. Esca pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Marcus pulled the furs back over them, and they dozed until morning.

After breakfast with Aquila, Marcus travelled into Calleva. Esca accompanied him, uninvited, because he said he had "nothing better to do". The storm had reached even here, though there was not nearly as much damage as at Isca Dumnoniorum. A few missing tiles was the most of it, but the extra rain had swollen the river to bursting point. Several streets were flooded to ankle-height.

From gossip overheard, Marcus soon learned that his uncle had been at a meeting in the forum to discuss the storm, the damage caused, and what repairs could be conducted with the river still so high. It pleased Marcus that his uncle could carry so much clout now, despite – or perhaps because – of his name.

Esca stuck to Marcus like the proverbial shadow. He carried whatever Marcus gave to him – dried foods, new sandals, a broach for his cloak to replace the one lost in the storm – but did not speak. This was not altogether unusual. Whenever Marcus ventured to market, Esca followed, and they played their parts of patron and freedman to perfection. It was a dance they were long used to, and they were greeted as a familiar pair by the traders at market. Marcus tried not to think about what tomorrow would bring, or whether Esca would still be a customer at this market with Marcus away in Rome.

After arranging for a man to come measure Lampas and Celer for new tack that afternoon, Marcus led them home. His leg twinged most of the trip back. He understood why when the heavens opened, a torrent of freezing cold rain that had them dashing the rest of the way. After they dried, Stephanos called them for lunch – eggs and ham with watered wine to wash it down – and Esca disappeared to the stable soon after. The afternoon Marcus spent packing.

At _cena_ , his uncle did not press him about his travel plans, nor his decision regarding Esca, for which Marcus was grateful. In truth, he had not made a decision about Esca. All the day long, he had tried to find a way to broach the subject, but had not succeeded, and thought himself a coward for it. If Esca accompanied him or not, stayed at the villa or left to make his own way, Marcus could do nothing about it. All he needed to do was pose the question. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to think that this might be his last night with Esca.

Consequently, he barely slept. Instead, he lay on his side and watched Esca sleeping, traced the curve of his eyelashes and the bow of his lax mouth until both were imprinted in his mind to call upon at any moment. He wanted to remember Esca always like this, softened in sleep, the little wheeze to his breathing a delight to discover and something he could cherish always. He didn't want his last image of Esca to be his face contorted with anger, or sadness, or – worse – no feeling at all.

Before dawn, Marcus crept from the bed. He dressed in silence, but could not resist pressing one last kiss to Esca's crown before he left. Even the kitchen was empty when he picked up his food supplies. Lampas was jumpy in his stall. Marcus had to tie him to the door in order to get his new saddle on. It fit well, as did the bridle. Celer whinnied with worry when Marcus led Lampas out, and shut the stable door. Marcus could hear the stamp of his agitated hooves against the stone floor.

In moments he was away, Lampas tearing up the road with huge strides that demolished the miles. Marcus rode Lampas hard until they were both heaving and the villa was a distant memory behind them. He ate breakfast and lunch on the hoof, by-passed the inn that signalled a day's travel from Calleva, and kept on long after dark. By then, even Lampas' indefatigable energy had waned. After making camp – little more than a small fire made smoky by the wet wood – Marcus fed Lampas an apple and brushed the sweat from his coat. His heart was like a lump of lead in his chest, and he realised he had not spoken to a single person all that day.

Much later, Marcus was startled from sleep by the pounding of hooves on the road. They stopped suddenly. Unwrapping himself from his blanket, Marcus pulled out his sword with a quiet whisk of metal. It would be a foolish man indeed who attacked Marcus this night. Lampas snorted, and then whinnied loudly. Marcus cursed him.

"Lampas?" Esca's voice floated down from the road. Dirt and pebbles skittered towards them as Esca led Celer off the road. It was a waxing moon, hidden behind the clouds; Marcus could just make out the glint of Esca's eyes as he approached. He sheathed his sword.

"Esca, what –" But Marcus didn't get to finish, as Esca shoved him hard enough to knock him over. Stunned more by the fury in Esca's face than the fall itself, Marcus could only lie back against wet leaves and blink. His tongue stung, and he tasted blood.

"You just left! No word, no message, nothing. Your uncle was worried senseless! How could you be so stupid?" Esca shouted. Celer reared back, but Esca kept a firm grip on the reins.

Gingerly, Marcus sat up. He spat blood onto the floor. "Esca," he sighed.

"No. I don't want to talk to you," Esca snapped. He was brutally efficient in unpacking his gear, and tied Celer next to Lampas without even a pat of reassurance for his startled horse. The two beasts seemed to settle next to each other, at least. Esca rolled his blankets out next to Marcus', and looked at him expectantly. Marcus was too tired to argue, and so he laid down. Esca curled up next to him, pushing at Marcus' shoulder until he turned onto his side. He wrapped his arm around Marcus' waist, dug his freezing cold nose into Marcus' neck, and finally relaxed with a deep, heartfelt sigh. "You're an idiot, Marcus Flavius Aquila," he murmured. Warm from head to toe, Marcus grabbed Esca's hand and squeezed.

The journey to Londinium the next day was invigorating. It did not remind Marcus so much of the quest north, except that it was a journey from point A to point B, because so much had changed since then. He had a goal, and he had Esca with him, and the sky even cleared somewhat to let through some weak British sunshine. Even his leg was without complaint for once.

Esca raced Marcus part of the way, and the horses were spirited in response. At lunch, he sat with his leg pressed hip to ankle with Marcus', and kissed him between bites of salted meat. Only now that Esca was there could Marcus admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, how hard it had been to leave without him.

Londinium was a shock to the senses after so long in mild countryside. Houses crowded in right up to the edge of the roads, which were heaving with carts, horses and people. The smell alone could knock a man back six paces. For a moment, Marcus had to pause and acclimatise to the noise of thousands of people living in one space.

"All Roman cities look the same," Esca commented behind him. "Take the second right and head straight on to get to the river." He shrugged at Marcus' baffled look.

The docks were easy to find once they caught a whiff of fish. Marcus bartered for passage on a ferry leaving the next day that could accommodate two horses. Then all they had to do was find an inn that didn't immediately make their skin itch with imagined lice, stable Lampas and Celer for the night, and settle in.

 _Cena_ that evening tasted fantastic after two hard days' ride. Marcus was relaxed enough to try some of Esca's British ale, which was bitter and smoky but not at all bad once Marcus had a taste for it. They tripped upstairs at a late hour, giggling into each other's mouths, and tumbled into bed half-undressed.

"I'm glad you followed," Marcus murmured against Esca's lips.

"I always will," Esca whispered back.

Wine and ale obviously did not mix, judging by the pounding headache Marcus carried through the early morning's preparations. Esca laughed at his misery, and got a shove to the shoulder for it. Even so, there was a thrill in his belly that Marcus couldn't deny.

Himilco, the captain of the ferry, greeted them like a typical gruff Carthaginian sailor, and gave them a quick briefing on what they could expect. "The wind is with us today. We should be across the water by late evening," he said. Marcus, who had travelled from the continent, listened with half an ear. Esca seemed cool and unruffled, but he was twitchy, and his eyes shifted.

"Are you nervous?" Marcus asked when Himilco had left them to prepare their horses. Esca did not look at him as he stripped the saddle from Celer's back.

"I have never been to sea before," he said shortly. The Brigantes were an inland nation, populating hilly northern areas that had a few lakes but certainly didn't require any skill in water craft. Nor was the Mare Britannia a pleasant body for that first journey. Marcus didn't think it wise to mention that, however. He squeezed Esca's shoulder in solidarity, and led Lampas on board.

The sky was grey, and the sea choppy, but as they pulled away from the dock Marcus took a deep breath of salty air. Overhead the sail billowed in the strong coastal wind. The horses were calm, their provisions had been packed away in the hold, and Esca was already leaning over the side to void his breakfast. Marcus smiled.

Most of the day was spent at Esca's side as he navigated his sea legs for the first time whilst vomiting. Marcus himself had travelled by ship enough times for it to be familiar, though as the day drew on and the sky grew darker, even he felt queasy at the heave and roll of the ferry. There were half a dozen other passengers, all traders shipping wheat or tin to the mainland. They were content to huddle together sharing muttered conversation amongst people who were used to the journey, and left Esca and Marcus to their own devices.

"Look, Esca," Marcus said, pointing at the horizon long after sunset, the waxing moon hidden by cloud but shedding enough light to pick land from sea.

"I am thoroughly sick of the sight of water. Unless there is land ahead, I'm content to stare at my feet," Esca moaned. He had grown progressively more pale as the hours passed, and the only reason he wasn't being sick now was because he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Marcus rested his fingers against the back of Esca's bowed neck, sticky with sea salt and sweat.

"There's land," Marcus reassured him. With great effort, Esca raised his face to glance at the strip of black along the horizon, and the huge thunderhead hanging over it. Even as they watched, three forks of lightning struck the earth in quick succession.

"A bad omen," Esca muttered darkly. Marcus was inclined to agree. The wind had changed course, pushing them further south, though Himilco assured them that there wouldn't be a problem.

They watched the smear of land grow bigger, weaving up and down as waves knocked the boat. Esca ducked his head back between his knees with a groan, and leaned heavily against Marcus. On deck, crew fought with the rigging while the wind picked up, and Himilco paced back and forth.

"Ugh. Marcus, will you please stop this ship," Esca pleaded, curling into Marcus' arms. Marcus worried about the troubled look on Himilco's face, and the sway of the boat, and the vicious storm currently pelting the mainland, but all he said to Esca was:

"Please don't throw up on me."

"Oh gods, what is that?" cried a voice over the crash of the waves. Marcus looked at the horizon again, at the giant black cloud, and saw what the traders and crew were pointing at: two pillars descending from the storm like thick, dangling snakes. As the wind buffeted the boat closer to the shore, Marcus could see where they touched the ground, spewing up debris like sand.

"What is it?" Esca looked up. "What in the name of the gods are they?"

"Vortexes from the sky." Marcus had to yell to be heard over the noise as wind and sea tried to outdo each other. "We sometimes see them on the Mare Internum." The boat pitched into a huge trough in the surface of the sea, then bounced out with such force Esca's head collided with Marcus' jaw, nearly severing his tongue. In the next roll, they slid across the wet deck, as did most of the crew.

"Will we founder?" one of the traders shouted.

"Don't tempt fate!" Himilco snarled back.

Marcus struggled to his feet, skinning his knee as the ship dropped from under him again. He hauled Esca up too, yelling in his ear, "We need to check the horses!"

"It's coming for us!" bellowed a crewmember still up in the rigging, clinging on for dear life. Marcus looked, and it was true. The shore was only a couple of miles away, but one of the twisting demons had turned from the land and was racing over the water. Marcus could hardly judge its distance, so strangely did it dance, but as it drew closer, there built a deafening roar that silenced even the sea, only interrupted by the crack of powerful thunder.

Between one blink and the next, the vortex had raced past them, hurling water and dirt with blistering speed through the air. The boat dropped again, sending Marcus wheeling back against the deck. He watched in stunned disbelief as the monstrosity circled them, like an eel dragged from the depths, forks of lightning spitting out from the sky as the tail whipped the water into a frenzy.

"Esca!" he bellowed. The Briton was stumbling towards the hatch to the hold, his grip white-knuckled against the sides of the ship. Marcus guessed he was going to check the horses, though it was a foolish attempt at this point.

The vortex swung by again, closer this time, spinning the boat with the force of its passage. Every hair on Marcus' body seemed to stand on end at the inhuman screech as it whisked by. And then, as if time had slowed, he watched it come round the right side, take a sharp left, and plough into the bow of the ship. Wood wrenched and split apart, silent against the roaring rage of the vortex. Marcus barely had time to put his arms up to defend against the deadly rain of splinters.

When he looked again, the ship was several feet above the surface of the water, juggled by the wind like a toy. He could just see Esca crouched down, but his grip was clearly slipping, and the boat was spinning so fast. He disappeared over the jagged lip made when the vortex tore the bow clean off. Marcus blinked against dust and water and shards of wood, but Esca was gone.

It seemed to go on forever, and yet happen so very fast. The vortex played with them, tossed this way and that in the wind, and then it dropped them. Marcus' stomach followed a split second afterwards, and then a wave of freezing sea water crashed over his head. It was like all the heat had been leached from his body, like his limbs had frozen solid. The agony in his leg was unbearable. He kicked as hard as he could upwards, upwards, until he broke the surface with a gasp.

The ship was in pieces, floating in the choppy waves like so much driftwood. Blinking drops from his eyes, Marcus struggled to keep his head above water as another wave crashed over him. He cough and spluttered. A large piece of the deck nearly knocked him out, but he deflected it with his arm, and barely felt the gash it caused. The vortex had gone, back to the land to wreak its havoc.

"Esca!" Marcus called, though he knew it was pointless. The hiss and crash of the waves drowned the sound of his voice. The cargo was scattered amongst the break, though Marcus couldn't see Lampas or Celer. He couldn't see anyone at all.


	3. Chapter 3

For a long time, Marcus floated in a daze, the throb of his skull lulled by the distant crash of waves. It was difficult to find focus beyond the chill of wet sand under him and the frigid burn against raw skin of wool soaked in cold sea water. His lips stung when he licked them, salt and sand embedded in cracked flesh. In fact, everything hurt. He wondered if he was back at the army training camp, that first week, he a tall skinny teenager with the promise of strength, and every officer out to make hell for a fresh recruit. Days of endless drills, marching until his feet bled, wrestling with soldiers twice his weight, subsisting on gruel and bread, and sleeping for a few sweet hours while his body struggled to adapt, only to go through it all again the next morning. He had felt then about as bad as he did now.

Marcus drifted again, caught somewhere between the misery of his body and the pounding in his head. He came abruptly to full and sickening consciousness when something jabbed him in the back. He grunted more from surprise than pain. Several voices gasped in surprise, stumbling back from what – he was sure – they thought was a dead body. For some reason, Marcus resented that more than anything else, and it was with a considerable amount of effort that he rolled himself onto his back. His head swam. For a moment he couldn't tell if he was going to pass out or throw up. He risked opening his eyes just once, and caught a glimpse of several child-shaped silhouettes hovering over him like vultures. Groaning, he threw an arm over his face to block out the unbearable light stabbing through his head, and focused on keeping very, very still.

The voices mutted amongst each other in a guttural tongue he didn't recognise, before one of their number ran off. Marcus flinched at the clods of sand that landed on his face. "We will fetch you help," an accented voice said, one of the children, perhaps braver than the rest, or else the only one who could speak Latin.

Marcus had to work up spit in his mouth before he could attempt speech, so dry was his throat. "Where am I?" he rasped.

"Belgica," the boy replied. "The gods must love you to bring you through that storm." Marcus almost giggled, the idea was so absurd, but he recognised the signs of post-battle trauma and clamped down the urge. He couldn't afford to lose his head.

"Other survivors?" he asked. More murmuring in the Celtic tongue, and then a shout from across the beach.

"Our fathers have come. They will help you," the boy said. He yelled back to the approaching adults. To Marcus' sore head, it felt like being bludgeoned in the ear with a great cymbal. But more importantly, the boy had not answered his question. Marcus was gripped with a sudden fear, because while he had been prone on the beach, he had assumed there were others from the ship beside him. He had assumed _Esca_ was beside him. Now as he recalled the terror of the previous night, the twin tails of smoke descending from the heavens to wreak divine havoc upon the ground, he remembered the ship torn in two and carried into the air by the wind. He remembered Esca plucked from the deck like a child's plaything.

Gasping, Marcus forced himself to sit up. Sunlight and nausea fought to slay him again, but he grit his teeth and grabbed the arm of the boy who had spoken to him. The boy cried out in surprise when Marcus pulled him closer, and the other children shouted with alarm, but Marcus was past hearing them. Already the darkness was creeping in at the edge of his vision, but he needed to _know_.

"Are there any other survivors? Did you find a man? A short man, with blue ink on his arm? Speak!" Marcus demanded, shaking the boy.

"N-no! No other survivors on this beach. Only you!" the boy gasped. The fingers of his free hand gouged Marcus' wrist as he struggled to break loose. "Let go!" Marcus did. His lungs didn't seem to be working anymore, his heart still in his chest. Frantically his eyes scanned the beach, even as his vision blurred too much to make out more than dim shapes. Esca was not here. Esca was gone.

It was a relief when Marcus passed out again.

There was a cool, damp cloth pressed to his brow. Marcus roused himself enough to listen for sounds of movement. Someone was in the room with him, mixing with a pestle and mortar. He caught the scent of medicinal herbs – arnica and white willow, familiar pungent smells. "Esca?" he called.

"Hush," a woman's voice replied. He listened to her approach. With careful hands she lifted his head and pressed a cup to his lips. Marcus was ready for the distinct tang of the medicine.

"Who are you?" he asked when she had lain him back down.

"My name is Antonia," she said. Her accent was like the boy's from the beach. "You are a guest in our house. My son and his friends found you this morning. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Marcus said. "I think I frightened him." Antonia harrumphed, though her hands were still gentle when she removed the cloth from his face. Marcus blinked rapidly against the sudden light and air, though the interior of the hut was still quite dark but for the square of light above where smoke drifted out.

"A man big as you could have broken his arm without trouble. He will live with a bit of bruising." Guilt curdled in Marcus' belly, for he had not meant to harm the boy at all. The guilt quickly mutated into nausea, and it was with a muffled whimper that he leaned over the side of the low cot and vomited on the dirt floor.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, coughing to clear his throat. Antonia tsked, and laid a cloth over the mess. Mostly it was sea water and acid; Marcus could taste it like a thick, burning paste at the back of his mouth.

"You were hit in the head," Antonia explained. "Driftwood, most likely, or you were thrown into a rock. I bound the cut to your arm, but that was the extent of your injuries. That you survived at all is proof the gods love you."

"So said your son," Marcus muttered, but he did not feel like laughing this time. It took him by surprise how alien it felt to have another person tend him in illness, after so long with Esca at his side, nursing him through surgery and fever and battle wounds. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch him, feel the familiar heat of his skin and know that Marcus was cared for.

With growing horror, Marcus realised there were tears streaming from his eyes. He wiped them quickly away, but more came, and a sob fought free. Antonia stopped moving. Marcus sensed her looking at him as he sucked in great breaths to beat down the despair he could feel rising.

"You lost someone?" she asked.

He hid his face in his hands. "Yes," he whispered. Antonia rose to her feet, knees clicking. Marcus felt the breeze of her passing, and then he was alone in the hut. He lay on his side under the blankets and took long, shuddering breaths into his lungs until the vice around his chest eased. Marcus stared unseeing for so long his eyes stung from more than just tears, but he was caught in the void in his head. It felt like waking up at his uncle's villa that first time, hurt and confused. It felt like losing a limb.

Questions plagued Marcus even as he lay there. What would he do now? Who was he, without Esca beside him? They had been each other's master and slave, until now they balanced each other perfectly, like two sides of a coin. Marcus remembered how ready he had thought he was to return to the continent alone, and the relief that had flooded through him when Esca had hunted him down. Surely the gods did not love Marcus, for they had taken first his family's honour, then his career, and now Esca too. Unbidden, more tears slipped free of his control.

But as he wrestled with his thoughts, bitter and grieving though they were, Marcus remembered Esca after his surgery. There were days where the rain never ended, and all Marcus could focus on was the deep ache in his leg, and would ignore the exercises prescribed to him. Esca would scold and goad him in equal measure, until Marcus sat up and undertook the steps necessary for his recovery. When Marcus was tired from relearning to walk, Esca would challenge him to one more circuit. Every day Esca would give him a new goal: "Today you will walk to the door and back", "Today you will enter the baths without my help", "Today you will ride your horse". Unyielding, on the verge of disrespectful, but Marcus had been grateful for the drill sergeant, had responded to Esca's orders, and had made a full recovery. It had been a huge improvement on those long, mournful days before his surgery when he could do naught but sit around the villa, wrapped up in his own grief.

Marcus decided then that he would take action. He would not disrespect Esca by falling into that same pattern of wistfulness as before. His goal was to reach Rome and speak to the Emperor. That was all that mattered. Where the road was hard, when his leg pained him, any obstacles that stood in his path, Marcus would imagine Esca beside him and battle through, as they had from Calleva to Caledonia and back again. Anything that came after would be in the hands of the gods.

So decided, Marcus swallowed once more against the knot in his throat, and rubbed dried tear tracks from his cheeks. His arm twinged at the movement. He traced the bandage with one fingertip abstently while he caught his bearings. Then, careful of the knot of pain on his head where he had been clouted, he sat up. His bad leg ached when he stood, the muscle trembling, but by leaning on the sturdy wooden wall of the hut Marcus was able to make his way to his clothes hung to dry by the fire. They were salt-stained and stiff, but he managed to pull them on without falling over. He had to duck almost in half to shuffle through the entrance, so tall was he, only to be hit immediately in the face by daylight. He flinched and stumbled back, hand coming up to shield his tender eyes.

"You should not be out of bed," Antonia scolded from her stool, mending work laid across her knees as she squinted up at him. Though he disliked inactvity, Marcus was inclined to agree. His head felt like it was still at sea, and it was with some effort that he did not topple over.

"I must get to Rome, as fast as possible," he said. "Who can I speak to about acquiring supplies? And a mount?" Antonia pursed her lips with a frown, but answered him in a tone that implied she was well-used to stubborn men.

"My husband is out fishing, as are most of the other men. You may speak to them when they return this afternoon."

So Marcus waited, spending his time meandering through the village. It had suffered hugely during the storm, that much was evident. The less sturdy houses had been blown over, whilst the fences that penned the animals had been ripped from the ground. Women and children alike were hard at work weaving wood together to replace them, while the animals that had survived were shut in an empty hut whose roof had torn away.

It was a short walk to the beach where he had been found. A few children were down there still, hunting for crabs and mussels. The tide had brought in the flotsam of shipwreck, huge chunks of decking, barrels and crates, a broken mast missing its sail. There were no more bodies. Taking a deep breath of the brisk salty air, Marcus tried to imagine Esca's fate. Perhaps he had survived after all. Perhaps he was even now on a beach yonder, waking alone, wondering where Marcus could be. Perhaps the gods would have mercy, and Marcus would return to Britannia to find Esca waiting for him there.

Foolish thoughts. Disgusted with his own absurdity, Marcus turned his back on the unforgiving sea.

What men had not gone fishing were busy in the nearby woods. Marcus did not pay them a visit, but he could hear them talking, and the sound of falling trees. Instead, Marcus circled the village and came to a shrine under an aged oak. It's branches had been stripped back by the storm, the white wood sticking out like broken bone, but the trunk itself was still strong. The altar was overflowing with gifts and offerings: gold broaches and bracelets displaying intricate designs, fine wine decanters filled to the brim with excellent vintage, stacks of coins both Roman and Gallic, and several bowls of darkly congealed blood.

"We are waiting for a druid to visit," Antonia said behind him. He turned to her, and was proud that he only wobbled a little. "These are what gifts we can offer, in the hope that the gods will spare us further misery."

"That seems fair," Marcus said, nodding. Antonia's eyes narrowed.

"You think your gods would defend us better?" she snapped. Marcus held up his hands, ducking his head.

"I would not care which god chose to protect my home, so long as it did so well," he said. Antonia snorted through her nose. She was distracted by the sound of her son calling to her as he ran up the hill to the tree. He had in his hand a dagger. Marcus could tell even from a distance that it was of fine workmanship, the white hilt intricately engraved. Antonia and the boy babbled to each other in their tongue for a few minutes. When the boy looked at Marcus he paused. There was a tinge of fear in his eyes, but the boy did not hide behind his mother, to Marcus' silent approval.

"Herius wises to deposit this dagger on the altar," Antonia said to Marcus. Nodding once, Marcus limped towards them. Herius watched him with intelligent eyes that reminded Marcus immediately of Esca. The pang he felt at the thought was not unexpected, though it made his breath catch. Up close, Marcus could see the bruises his fingers had left on the boy's upper arm. They would fade quickly on a child so young and hale, but the guilt gnawed at him that he had marked Herius at all, moreso now that he could see Esca in him – not just the watchful eyes, but the strong Celtic nose and the sharp cut of his cheekbones underneath the baby fat.

Only when Marcus was stood on the other side of Antonia did Herius move, kneeling at the altar and murmuring prayers to the gods before delicately placing the dagger amongst the other offerings. The wind shivered in the bare branches overhead, and Marcus wondered if these gifts would be enough to spare the village should the gods grow angry again.

"Where did you find it?" Marcus asked as Herius returned to his mother's side. The boy kept his face a blank mask as he answered; Marcus missed Esca with a sudden clench of his heart.

"On the beach."

"I suppose there were many ships at sea when the storm broke," Antonia said. She spoke briefly to Herius in their shared tongue before sending him on his way. "You look at him strangely," she said to Marcus, who shook his head as if to clear away his troubled thoughts. The action made him stagger, the dizziness that had plagued him all day rising up at last. Antonia caught his arm as he stumbled and dropped to his knees. He keened at the impact on his bad leg, felt the ripple of pain as it surged through him, clouding his vision. Marcus feared passing out, and grit his teeth against the slippery slope of unconsciousness.

It took him a few moments to realise that Antonia was squatting next to him, hoisting his heavy arm over her shoulders. "Come, stranger. You must stand," she said. He struggled to do as she commanded, and between the two of them they managed to get Marcus back on his unsteady feet. He was aware of the attention they drew, stumbling through the village to Antonia's hut, but Marcus' head throbbed like a sword caught between hammer and anvil so he didn't much care.

It was blessedly dark inside. Antonia dropped him onto the bed he had vacated before, and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Marcus listed sideways. He blinked at the floor, eyes blurring, whole body aching.

"Rome makes them big, that is for certain," Antonia huffed. She was slighter than Esca had been, but had taken a good portion of Marcus' weight on their short journey. He was grateful she hadn't left him where he fell, but he supposed a scarred and bruised Roman was not much of an offering to deposit at that altar of finery. Antonia placed a cool damp cloth on his head again, and eased his head up to sip at the tincture she had made before. "Rest now," she said, and made to leave.

"Wait," Marcus called. Antonia turned, one foot already outside. "So we are not strangers, my name is Marcus Flavius Aquila."

"Rest then, Aquila." She left.

Marcus rested, but did not sleep. Rather, he drifted, hardly aware of the direction of his own thoughts. When he found himself reaching for Esca beside him, only to encounter empty space, he clenched his hands over his chest and deliberately set his mind on the task he had to fulfil: reaching Rome, and informing the Emperor of all that had happened.

Not long before sunset, when the air had cooled enough that Marcus' skin pimpled like gooseflesh, the men returned from fishing. The village burst with noise as children ran for their fathers, and the women collected the fish to prepare for the evening meal. Marcus had just eased himself upright when a man strode into the hut, Antonia and Herius close at his heels. Marcus, sat only a few inches off the floor on the low bed, peered up at this new arrival. The man was short and wiry not unlike Esca, with a severe countenance and skin like tanned leather after so many years facing the sea wind. Marcus didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the relieved smile directed at him.

"I am glad to see you looking so well, Roman," the man said. He leaned down to Marcus and offered his arm for a firm shake. "My name is Aulus Crispus Corentin. You are a welcome guest in my house."

"Marcus Flavius Aquila," Marcus responded. "I thank you for your hospitality." He noticed the rise of Corentin's eyebrow at Marcus' name, but he made no mention of it. Instead, Corentin moved about the hut in a familiar routine, stripping off his wet sea clothes and changing into a dry tunic and braccae, speaking to his son while Antonia inspected Marcus' head wound and coaxed more of the nasty medicine into him.

"A feast is prepared to celebrate successful repairs on the boats," Corentin told him. "Will you join us?" Marcus was tired, but also hungry, and did not want to appear ungrateful.

"If it is your wish," he said.

"It is," Corentin said firmly. Antonia fetched a thick blanket Marcus could wrap around himself. Corentin and his family wore fine cloaks, pinned at the shoulder with delicate broaches of gold. Marcus understood then that he was a guest of the village leader, or someone very like it. Fortunate, as Marcus had need of supplies that the leader would be most able to provide.

The whole village had gathered at the large fire in the centre of the village, where the smell of fish was almost overpowering. Entering their circle reminded Marcus strongly of his time north of the wall, when everything stopped so people could stare at the Roman slave. He shivered, and wrapped his blanket more tightly around him.

"Friends, eat," Corentin encouraged. He and Antonia sat at a bench reserved for them. Herius disappeared to join his friends, leaving Marcus shifting from foot to foot. This soon changed when Corentin nudged the villager next to him, who promptly relocated so that Marcus could sit. It was an awkward squeeze; he was big even by Roman standards, and these villagers were not of Germanic build. The bench creaked beneath his weight, so he tried to eat the bowl of fish stew placed in his hands without moving too much.

The night wore on, the clouds above obscuring the passage of the stars. The ale passed around not long after most of the children went to bed, and talk turned to the storm. Corentin spoke in Latin to the villagers, who followed his lead. Marcus was touched at the consideration given him.

"I have never seen such a thing before," said one, a grizzled man with a thick beard.

"Nor I," said his neighbour.

"I have," Corentin said. The villagers stared wide eyed at him. "On the Mare Internum. Never so close, though." Marcus was surprised to learn Corentin had been so far south. "Have you, Aquila?" Crispus asked him. Marcus shook his head 'no'.

"What do you think it means?" the first fisherman asked. "Have we offended the gods in some way?"

"I do not think this was something local to us," Corentin said slowly, with a sidelong look at Marcus. "Was there anything unusual in Britannia?"

"A storm hit Isca Dumnoniorum little more than a week ago. It was more powerful than any I had seen before. The city was in ruins when I left the next morning, and much of the southern lands suffered," Marcus said. Corentin nodded thoughtfully.

"It would seem to me that if the gods are angry, they are not angry solely at us," he said.

"But how can you be sure?" said the same fisherman. Corentin placed a friendly hand on the man's shoulder.

"Cassius, you know that we cannot be sure. That is why the druid is coming. In the meantime, we will make what offerings we can, and fix the village, and pray that it is enough." Cassius seemed appeased by Corentin's words, as were the other villagers. Marcus was impressed. "Now," Corentin said, and took a long draught of the ale. "Marcus Flavius Aquila."

"Yes?"

"I know your name well. What is it that draws you so far from the land that brought you glory?" Corentin asked. The villagers immediately silenced all their background murmurings. Marcus, who had been battling the heavy drag of his eyelids for most of the evening, felt the thrum of adrenaline course through his veins in a dizzying rush. He sat straighter on his seat, nearly vibrating with tension. In the few moments he had before responding, he decided that Corentin was intelligent enough to spot a lie, and Marcus needed his trust. He would have to be honest.

"I am on a mission for Governor Urbicus," he said.

"Indeed! A great honour. And of course there would be no better person than yourself, the man who restored the eagle of the Ninth." The villagers whispered quickly to each other in their own tongue. Marcus frowned at Corentin.

"Was it so famous an act?" he asked. Yes, it had been lauded through Britannia, of course, and Marcus had been invited to a number of homes as a guest of honour since, but he had not thought it would breach the coast.

"I doubt your name is known through _all_ the Empire, but in a land where the Ninth had been stationed ..." Corentin smiled. "We keep track." He offered Marcus the ale. "How can we aid you in your mission?" Marcus felt a well of relief within him, and drank a quick mouthful of the ale. It was different from the one he and Esca had sampled in Londinium, but it reminded Marcus of him nonetheless. He pushed the heavy memories aside.

"Everything was lost in the shipwreck. I have nothing but the clothes on my back, but I must get to Rome by any means possible," he said, a note of urgency entering his voice. Corentin nodded.

"You mean to speak to the Emperor," he deducted with a shrewd glance for confirmation. "About the storm in Britannia. And the vortexes here?"

"Yes. Governor Urbicus felt someone more reliable than a trader should bear the news to Rome."

"Understandably," Corentin murmured. He tapped his lips with his forefinger as he thought, and Marcus could only wait for the verdict. The villagers, too, held their silence. Finally, Corentin seemed to come to a decision. "We have little that survived the storm, but what we can spare we will give to you. Our horses have run off, but you may take a mule. He is old, stupid as a pony and stubborn as an ass, but he should bear your weight." At Marcus' doubtful look he elaborated: "His mother was a beast of a mare from Germania that could have carried two of you easily."

"Thank you for your generosity," Marcus said with sincerity.

The gathering ended not long after. Marcus followed Corentin back to the hut, where Herius was already sleeping. Antonia looked up from her mending work by the fire as they entered. From the smell alone, Marcus could tell she had more of the medicine ready for him.

"Is everything decided?" she asked. Corentin sat on a stool by the fire, gesturing for Marcus to do likewise.

"It is," Corentin said. Antonia offered him another mug of ale, and the two smiled softly at each other. Marcus had to look away. He busied himself fussing with the bandage around his arm. The flesh beneath was beginning to itch, and he was curious to see how deep the wound was.

"Here," Antonia murmured, and offered Marcus a smaller cup. He pulled a face at the smell of the tincture, but swallowed it all without complaint.

"What legion did you serve with?" Marcus asked Corentin when the silence around the fire had stretched long.

"The First Minervia," Corentin said. "How did you know?"

"Just a feeling," Marcus replied.

The white willow hit him hard not long after, so Marcus retired to the cot assigned to him with barely a murmur. He lay on his side facing the wall, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage to keep from reaching out into the vast void of the half-empty bed, and listened to Antonia and Corentin moving around the hut. There was the clink of porcelain, and the rustle of furs as they climbed into bed. In the dark they whispered to each other, too quiet for Marcus to hear what they were saying. He thought they had gone to sleep, but then heard the small wet sounds of Roman kissing. Furs rustled again, and Antonia whimpered high in her throat.

Flushed and heartsick, Marcus buried his head under the pillow and willed himself not to remember the look on Esca's face the first time they came together in bed, hushed and secret and perfect.

Packing the next day was all too easy a task, for the villagers really did have little to spare. It was enough to take him maybe thirty leagues if he rationed sparely. His uncle had passed on a few names of former comrades who had settled on the continent, and Marcus hoped to call upon them on the way.

Corentin exited from the hut where the animals were penned, leading behind him a monster of an ass whose head towered clear over even Marcus. "This," Corentin said, panting from the effort of pulling the stubborn mule, "is Brutus. Brutus, meet Marcus. I'm sure the two of you will get along like a house on fire." The two in question eyed each other warily.

"I am ready, father." Marcus glanced down in surprise to find Herius, dressed for travel with small bag over one shoulder. At Marcus' look, Corentin explained:

"You were unfortunate to be blown so far off course, for there is no easy Roman road out of here, and the Frisii or Chamavi have occasionally been known breach the border even this far south. Herius will act as your guide to Gesoriacum." The boy stared up at Marcus with a hard set to his jaw. The fingermarks on his arm stood out livid in the weak spring sun barely breaking the horizon, though they were already paler than yesterday. "And Brutus favours Herius above all, so you will at least make good time at the beginning of your journey."

They parted with little fanfare. Herius, sat almost on Brutus' whithers, took the reigns and steered them south-west. With precious little to do but watch the passing scenery as they clopped over field and stream, Marcus turned his thoughts to the journey ahead. The road from Gesoriacum was well-travelled. There would be many houses along the way where he could stay without cost, and they would be far more comfortable than the regular inns dotted a day's ride apart. They might even have heard of him, as Corentin had done, which Marcus found both delightful and a little embarrassing. But if it eased his way to Rome, he was not above throwing the reinvigorated Aquila name around.

"How long is the journey?" Marcus asked Herius.

"Three days, more or less," came the response. The rivers were swollen with rainwater, but Brutus strode across them as though they were little more than brooks. Marcus' feet got wet despite his best efforts, yet the pale spring sun was not high enough to dry them. The chill spring air nipped at his toes until they were numb, and a bone-deep ache settled into his bad leg.

Herius was poor conversation, and so they rode in silence, stopping only for quick meals of dried fruit and salted fish. It was hard _not_ to miss Esca, whose quiet moments were at least companiable, and was always ready to point out some interesting vista or soaring bird.

They stopped long after dark, just when Marcus thought he could not bare to sit astride Brutus for one second more. Feeling every one of his thirty years and change, he slid to solid ground and braced against the mule's side until his balance returned. Herius, sprightly child that he was, hopped off with undiminished vigour. He set about removing the riding blankets from Brutus' back. When Marcus tried to help by reaching for the bridle, Brutus snapped at his hand. Marcus thought it prudent to leave Herius to it, and set about making camp instead.

 _Cena_ was another silent affair, broken only by the crack and pop of the fire and Brutus snuffling at the ground behind them. Marcus was already sick of salted fish, which did not go well with the thin gruel he cooked up from their supplies. Herius wolfed his food down like any growing boy, and turned in for the night without even a word to Marcus. Sighing, Marcus banked the fire and checked on Brutus one last time before rolling himself in his blankets. Herius would likely be his last companion on the road to Rome, so he might as well get used to the silence.

It was a cold night. Curled tightly in on himself, Marcus missed Esca's heat at his back, the warm belt of his arm across his middle. He missed the tickle of breath against the nape of his neck. He shouldn't dwell on Esca's absence, Marcus knew. The past was past and he had to focus on his mission. But shivering from head to toe, feeling the heat leach from his fingers and his ears and nose, it was much more difficult not to miss the comforting press of Esca behind him. Marcus buried his head under his blankets and choked back the anguish squeezing his heart.

The next day was more of the same monotonous, silent countryside. Brutus ploughed on as if heedless of the weight on his back. Coming through a thick copse of trees, Marcus spied the distinct curving trail of a local path as it wound around wood and pool. Even as he looked, a trader's cart bounced along, the clatter of horses hooves audible enough to spook Brutus a bit.

"Hush," Herius soothed him, stroking his shoulder. Brutus snorted and tossed his head. Marcus barely had warning to hold on before they were racing to the road, long mule legs eating up the distance in vanishing strides. Herius whooped and laughed, bent over Brutus' neck, uncaring that Marcus was gripping his waist for dear life.

Brutus didn't tire, that much was clear. He dropped from his loping gallop to a bouncy trot, and then a brisk walk, all with his head held high and every impression that he would run again if he wanted. Still grinning from ear to ear, Herius patted Brutus' thick shoulder and babbled at him in his own language. Marcus took the opportunity to catch his breath and straighten his spine, which popped loudly. This was why they used horses in the army.

"He has the energy of a fresh stallion," Marcus commented to Herius when he had his breath back.

"Brutus is twice my age," Herius said. He glanced at Marcus over one shoulder, eyes bright with mirth. "He is almost as old as you, Centurion." Eyebrows climbing towards his hairline, Marcus could only laugh at the cheek.

"Would that I had his spirit," he said.

It seemed Brutus' little sprint had broken Herius' reserve. The ride afterwards was peppered with his comments to both Marcus and the mule, about the village, his parents and friends, the landmarks they passed and the other travellers that wandered the road.

"And so now mother and I are both citizens too. Father gave me a Roman name before he went on campaign. I think he knew he would win glory for us. They gave him a reward for valour in battle. Father says someday I should join the army ..."

Marcus, unused to dealing with children, could only listen with a bemused expression to Herius' prattle.

On the final day, they came across roads built in the Roman fashion leading to large red-tiled villas and a scattering of hamlets. The whole flat landscape was converted to farmland like a patchwork blanket in shades of brown. They were joined on the road by a surprising number of people, and shared the midday meal with a freedman travelling north from Nemausus.

"My patron has a great shipment of tin due in to Gesoriacum in the next few days. I am to see to its safe conduct south," the man, Diodorus, said. Picking at the dried venison Diodorus had swapped with them, Marcus nodded thoughtfully.

"There may well be some delay in its arrival," he said. "Britannia and Belgica both have suffered strange weather in recent days. I hope your tin is not lost at sea."

Understandably concerned, Diodorus rushed ahead of them to Gesoriacum. Brutus seemed quite content to strut along at his own pace, owning the road with his vast height and long legs. Now that the end was in sight, Herius' curiosity was piqued, and he plied Marcus with a variety of questions.

"What will Rome do when you inform them of the storms?"

"I couldn't say. The Emperor is wise and just, and the senate is filled with similar men. We can only hope they will send money and supplies to those areas that are suffering."

"Even to my village?"

"We can hope," Marcus hedged.

Gesoriacum was, really, no different to any other Roman city. Marcus could almost hear Esca's snide comment in Londinium whispered again in his ear. Instead, after dismounting, he focused on following Herius as he led Brutus through the bustling streets, weaving around huge puddles that teemed with flies. The city smelt, like most, of too many bodies living on top of each other, rotting vegetation and horse manure, but overlying that was the metallic tang of stale water. Marcus swallowed thickly against the taste of it coating his tongue.

"Where are we going?" he asked Herius, who certainly seemed to have a firm destination in mind.

"My mother's brother's house. He is a carpenter by trade, and does fine business in this city. He will shelter us for the night."

Herius' maternal uncle was a stooped, skeletal man with no hair or front teeth. If he was surprised by Herius' unexpected arrival, or his travel companion, he didn't show it. Downing tools in his workshop, he wiped his hands on a rag before greeting Marcus with a solid arm-grip.

"Gaius Valerius Armel," he grunted.

"Marcus Flavius Aquila." Marcus was somewhat relieved that his name did not spark any recognition in this stern man, who shared little in appearance with Antonia but the colour of his eyes. His wife was just as severe, nodding in greeting to them without even the hint of a smile. She showed Marcus to the only guest room without a word, whilst Herius saw to Brutus outside. There was no stable so they would have to leave him tied to a post by the front entrance and hope that, if a thief tried to make off with him in the night, Brutus' surly temper would assert itself.

 _Cena_ was a simple affair consisting of yet more fish; Marcus privately swore to avoid any seafood for the rest of the journey. Then, exhausted and sore from the hard ride, Marcus limped to the guest room and turned in for the night. His sleep was restless, haunted by images of Esca. Marcus dreamt that he was out at sea on a sleek ship, scouring the waves, but every time he spied a body waving at him a gale blew him off course, spinning rudderless in the water.

At first light Marcus crawled out of bed. He had been up for many hours already, tired but unable to sleep more. He left Herius curled in the corner amidst a pile of blankets, breathing softly. Armel was already up and breakfasting, and he greeted Marcus with a short nod. His wife brought out more bread, which Marcus picked at until sounds of life returned to the city. His gruff manner disinclined Marcus to ask Armel for assistance in fulfilling his duty, so today he would petition the household of the city senator and the resident navy praefect. He only hoped they would not turn him away in disbelief.

Marcus was but one in a great number of people at the senator's address, milling in the atrium until a slave summoned them to see the freedman who acted in his absence. The use of his name earned him a little respect, moreso than the other beggars were likely to receive, but Marcus was disappointed to take only small coinage, and considered the whole endeavour a wasted morning. He bought lunch with the money and sat in the forum whilst he ate. Gesoriacum was a lively place, filled with traders and officials rushing to and fro, and over all the smell of fish. He noticed the temples were remarkably full for the time of day, and guessed that even this city had not quite escaped the strange storms.

Down at the docks, it was no mean feat tracking down the prefect who controlled the navy. The ship captains pointed him in seemingly random directions, until Marcus was flushed red with exertion and his leg had cramped. He sat on the steps up to main street level, fingers kneading the knotted flesh above the thick clump of scar tissue, and let himself feel the agony of Esca's absence for a brief moment.

"I hear you have been looking for me?" came a voice behind him. Surprised, Marcus twisted around, squinting against the sun. "I am Praefect Nicanor."

The two men retired to Nicanor's office, where a slave brought them watered wine and a bowl of nuts to share. Nicanor was unusual in having come to the position of praefect after serving at sea himself, and the hard life of a sailor was carved into his ruddy skin.

"I sailed with your father," Nicanor said, when the slave had gone. Marcus nearly choked on his wine, so surprised was he. "When his cohort joined the Ninth in Ebacorum. I was just a boy then, new to the navy, but I think I reminded him of you. He spoke of you with great fondness." He sipped from his cup. "I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing."

"That was many years passed," Marcus said, after clearing his throat.

"Indeed. Much has happened since then. Congratulations on your success in Caledonia. It was the talk of the town for some while."

"Thank you." Sitting up straighter, Marcus decided to get straight to the point. Nicanor listened with an intent expression as Marcus explained Urbicus' request, and his experience at sea as the plaything of angry gods. Marcus kept his voice dispassionate, and deliberately forced all thoughts of Esca out of is mind. Nicanor snorted with ill humour when Marcus spoke of the senator's freedman, and the pittance donated to him.

"Senator Postumius is a petty man with a huge purse and a small hand. He would sooner see his mother starve than spend money to feed her."

"You share no love for each other then?" Marcus asked, amused. Nicanor snorted again.

"I am military. He is government. Living in the same city as him is a constant test of my patience. And that freedman of his –" Nicanor shuddered dramatically "– the lowest of sycophants. No, you have come to the right place for aid. Though army and navy have always had a strained relationship, when it comes to the politicians, we stand united in opposition."

"Your words lift my heart, brother," Marcus said.

He left Nicanor's company late in the day, when the forum had emptied of market stalls leaving only trails of manure to mark the passing of livestock. Nicanor had proved to be a generous man in both coin and conversation, and Marcus returned to Armel's house with a heavy purse and a light step.

Herius was outside brushing Brutus' flank, and he looked up at Marcus as he drew closer. In the dwindling twilight, his face resembled Esca's even more than usual. Marcus' breath caught in his throat. The boy smiled, shattering the illusion, because even in his happiest moments, Esca was not given to smiling. Still, Marcus was unsettled, and could admit readily to himself that he would be glad to leave Herius' company the next day and be rid of the constant reminder.

Now that he had the means, Marcus was itching to be on his way, yet the night dragged on. He caught only snatches of sleep here and there, and mostly lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady whuff of Herius' breathing. At dawn he rose, and woke Herius also, for they would both be leaving that day. Armel gave them a loaf of bread each before disappearing into his workshop. Marcus knew a dismissal when he saw one, so he led Herius outside.

Brutus was impatient, dancing on the spot as he tugged at his rope. He almost concussed Herius when the boy came close to feed him an apple and wish him well on his journey. Marcus used the distraction to place his supply bags across Brutus' back, and adjusted the blanket that would be his sole cushion for the next few weeks.

"How far is it to Rome?" Herius asked. His voice was thick with unshed tears.

"About nine hundred leagues," Marcus said. His body ached just at the thought of riding such a distance at speed. There could be no rest days for him on the journey. Urbicus would be marshalling a plan for southern Britannia even now, but without extra funding from the senate the province would suffer, and the Empire relied too heavily on the grain and metals exported from the island.

While Herius held the rope and murmured to Brutus, Marcus hoisted himself up. His arms shook with the effort, and Brutus stamped his feet in agitation. When he was settled, Marcus took the reins in hand. Herius looked up at him with damp eyes.

"I will take good care of him," Marcus assured him. Herius sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. His fingers fumbled to untie the knot binding Brutus to the post, and when it finally loosed, Brutus reared fully up, front hooves kicking at the air. Marcus clamped on with his legs as Brutus landed, spun, and bolted down the street.

The contrary mule ran as if Diana herself was hunting him. Marcus didn't bother trying to check his speed. Brutus would tire eventually, if not today then at some point down the road. Nine hundred leagues would quell the energy of any beast, no matter how fleet. Perhaps sensing his rider's apathy, Brutus slowed not long after they left the city walls. An early mist hung over the fields, but already it was burning off under the clear blue sky. It was going to be a hot day.

By the time they reached the inn, Marcus felt like the sun had sunk beneath the surface of his skin and lit a furnace there. He wasn't prone to sunburn, not like poor pale Esca was – had been – but even his olive skin had suffered under the summer-like glare of the sun. Dismounting in the inn's courtyard, Marcus shivered in the cool evening air, caught between the heat emanating from his face and arms and reminder that it was still early spring, though the day had seemed otherwise.

He ate at the inn's communal table amongst a smattering of other equally red-faced travellers from all corners of the Empire, and slept that night in a surprisingly comfortable bed. As always, the exertion of long hours riding eased his passage into a deep slumber. Marcus woke refreshed just as the sky was lightening in the east. He broke his fast, paid the innkeeper from Nicanor's donation, and led "that foul-tempered beast" from the stable, much to the relief of the stableboy.

The next day was more of the same, and the next, and the next. Marcus was impressed by Brutus' stamina, and they made good time even as the landscape began to wrinkle into hills. The sun scorched all it touched as it traversed across a sky that was a stunning shade of blue. Marcus sweated through his tunic by mid-morning each day. The only wind to cool him was provided by Brutus determined strides. His eyes stung with sweat and the effort to squint against the unrelenting light.

They reached Durocortorum in just five days. By then, Marcus' skin was itchy and peeling, and all his clothes stunk of stale sweat and mule. He tracked down a friend of his uncle's, a certain Maximus Julius Callisunus, who had served with the elder Aquila in the army some fifteen years before.

"And how is the old man? Still as mischievous as ever, sticking his nose into everyone's business?" Callisunus asked when they sat down to the evening meal.

"To a degree," Marcus said, smiling despite himself. "He is greatly involved in town affairs." Callisunus chortled, and his whole belly shook with it.

"That man never changes."

After the wonderful bath that night, Marcus was more than a little reluctant the next morning to haul himself back atop Brutus. His buttocks and legs were chafed raw, his arms ached from the constant battle with Brutus, and his skin felt stretched tight over the muscles of his face. Even his lips had cracked and burnt. But Rome called, and so it was a weary Marcus that climbed the mounting block and swung his sore leg over Brutus' back.

"Good luck," Callisunus called from the entrance to his modest villa. Waving, Marcus turned Brutus to the open road.

Even with the long legs of his headstrong mule eating up the miles, it was still another six days or so before they would reach Augustodonum, the next big city, and the crossroads upon which it was built. The heat kept rising, a cloying, humid stickiness that closed in around him until he felt like he could barely breathe. Brutus suffered under the midday sun. Sweat gleamed over his coat, and his sides heaved beneath Marcus' calves, yet when Marcus tried to slow him he tossed his head and picked up the pace a little more. It was absolute agony on Marcus' tender flesh, but he grit his teeth and carried on, trying to focus on anything other than the shooting pains from legs and groin.

Of course the heat intensified as they sped south, but it was still early spring, and Marcus expected a storm to break the unrelenting press of humidity. Those nights when he bypassed an inn, either because it was full or because the sheer look of the place made his skin crawl with imaginary lice, he prepared to awaken to a downpour, and yet each morning dawned dry and bright. The heat of the day even began to soak into the ground, so that the nights grew milder and what grass had grown after the winter wilted and died.

The villages Marcus passed through were tense places. Residents out shopping in the forum stopped to confer with each other about the extreme heat and the long days without rain, so unusual for the season. They fanned themselves with sweating hands as they gossiped, and their children slouched listlessly in the shadows of the temples.

Marcus noticed on the road a sudden trend towards offerings at crossroads, fords, and ancient imposing trees. He might have expected it in Britannia, where the natives still worshipped their own spirits, but here in Gaul it was a surprise to find the same practice amongst people who were mostly citizens of the Empire, and prayed to Roman gods. He thought to ask Esca, even turned to speak to him, to see if any of the little ritual places reminded him of home or if their two cultures were too different, but then he realised. He remembered. Marcus swallowed hard.

The approach into Augustodonum was exhausting in the heat as the road climbed over several steep hills. At the summit of the last, Brutus tripped and nearly went down. Marcus was flung over his neck, tumbling to land hard on his back on the solid stone ground. Winded, he could only blink up at the blue sky as his body tried to remember how to breathe again. Brutus didn't even attempt to run off, though Marcus still had hold of the reins just in case. Gingerly, Marcus rolled onto his side and eased himself up onto his good leg. The bad leg had been stiff and useless for days now, so he used it as little more than a prop as he hoisted himself upright. Brutus tried to bite his shoulder when he checked his legs, but Marcus was prepared for this and gave the mule a firm tap to the nose.

His hooves were fine, as were his legs, though they were swollen and shaky from the long miles travelled. As Augustodonum was spread out beneath them, Marcus decided to walk the rest of the way. His back and legs vigorously protested as he set off, so used to being astride Brutus were they, but he clenched his jaw and marched on. Brutus tried to dig his feet in, forcing Marcus to smack him in the side and haul him forward. After an hour of this battle of wills, where they scarcely moved more than half a mile, the stubborn ass finally relented, and they reached the bottom of the hill just as the sun was going down.

The gate to any city was always a chaotic place, but Marcus sensed the amount of people crowding into the city was unusual. Brutus whickered and pranced when people brushed against his flanks, too busy in their own lives to watch where they were going. Driven by curiosity, Marcus spied an old man seated on the steps to his home watching the world pass with an idle eye.

"What's going on?" Marcus asked him over the din.

"There's a meeting called."

"For what reason?"

"Animals been dying. Dropping like flies. Too much sun too early in the year." He nodded at the passers-by. "It'll be them next," he said darkly.

The forum was packed full of men and women alike, identifiable as labourers from the fields only by the dark tan of their skin. Marcus stood at the very edge of the crowd, reins still firmly in hand as he strained to listen to the words of the priest addressing them. He called on the gods to ease the heat, to send rain, so that what livestock they had left could survive through to birthing season.

"Now more than ever," he intoned in his raspy voice, "we must honour the gods of our homes, the gods of our fields. We must give thanks, and make sacrifices, and live to worship them. Only then will our torment end."

Marcus left before the mass prayer, winding his way back the way he came to the old man's house, the owner of which was still sat on the stoop. "Have you a bed to rent for the night? I can pay," Marcus asked him. The old man looked him up and down in consideration, then at the tetchy beast trying to nip Marcus' hand.

"No spare room, but you may displace my son for the night." He levered himself off the ground, knees clicking loud in the strange stillness of the street. "Come. You can keep your beast in the garden behind. There's nothing growing in there for him to damage."

Brutus was not happy to be tied to a post again, though he was appeased when Marcus put on his feedbag. Inside the house, Sulpinius did not offer him food or drink, but instead took Marcus directly to the room where he would spend the night. Marcus raided his supplies for fruit and dried meat. On the road he would have cooked gruel for himself, but that was impossible indoors so he would have to make do.

Marcus left so early the next morning that the sky was still thickly carpeted with stars. Sulpinius clutched at the coins placed in his palm and nodded farewell. His words of the night before stayed with Marcus as dawn lightened the sky, bringing with it the repressive heat. With eyes opened, Marcus truly looked into the grazing fields, filled with brown grass and unmoving animal bodies. In the four sweltering days it took to reach Lugdunum and the next major crossroads, Marcus counted twelve huge bonfires belching thick smoke and the stench of burning flesh across the landscape. Farm slaves who should have been preparing for the lambing season ghosted across empty fields with sheep slung over their shoulders. Shiny-faced villagers watched Marcus ride pass with dull, exhausted eyes.

Brutus wheezed his way into Lugdunum at twilight of the fourth day when the horizon glowed a stunning red after the sun had driven below. His sides had grown thin on the poor subsistence of the trail, and there was much less of a spring in his step. Marcus, too, had suffered. His leg ached every moment of the day, a deep nagging pain that pervaded all thought and action. Freckles kissed along the ridge of his nose amongst the peeling pink skin, and his eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint.

Along the road to the north gate, three newly constructed tombs stood to attention, with plots drawns out for another nine, though the stonemasons had long since retired for the day. The smell wafting from the city was almost enough to turn Marcus' hardened stomach: thousands of sweating bodies rotting one on top of another, their excrement baking like cake in the sun's furnace. But he was running low on supplies, so Marcus tried not to breathe through his nose as he passed the guards. As he entered, two stout ponies hauled a cart out, the bounce of the wheels dislodging the limbs of the dead piled upon it. Marcus watched it go with dark eyes, reminded of his days in the army, the post-battle clean up when they would collect their dead for a quick funeral before the orders came to march on. It seemed to him like the gods were waging war on men.

Impossibly, the following day was even more stifling. Marcus could scarcely drag himself out of the inn's lumpy bed to face the baked, blistering stones of the forum. Though he managed to pursuade himself, it was a waste of time, because the market was empty. Sighing, Marcus went back to the inn. He bartered with the owner for food, then fetched Brutus from the stable.

"This heat isn't doing him any good," the stableboy said. "He's wearing out."

Marcus heard the reprimand. From Lugdunum there were two routes he could take: south, or east. He feared if they continued south the sun would set poor Brutus on fire, so Marcus turned to the east and the mountains just peaking above the heat haze. It was a longer road, more circuitous, but Marcus hoped the altitude would bring some relief to them both. Blistered as he was across shoulders and neck, Marcus could only imagine what pain Esca would have been in had he made it this far. He smiled sadly.

Though he could scarcely bare to slow down, Marcus had been a cavalryman in the army and knew just how suicidal it was to push his mount past endurance. Already Brutus was slowing down. Marcus needed the mule strong enough to survive the hike up the mountains that guarded Italia like a towering row of soldiers, so he adjusted their daily schedule. They began the day well before dawn, and stopped in the lee of a tree during the hottest part of the day, before continuing until the darkest hours.

Along the shores of Lacus Lamanus, the grass was thick and green. Despite his haste, Marcus spent a day in one of the small villages at the very western tip of the lake, sleeping under the sun with a cool mountain breeze stealing the heat away, while Brutus inhaled every last bit of vegetation he could find. The residents here were blessed in the shadow of the mountains, their animals still alive, the roads through their hamlets not yet studded with markers for tombs not yet built. Marcus did not see any more cartloads of cadavers after that one in Lugdunum.

It was a lonely slog up the mountains. Normally in this season people took the southern-most road, or else sailed into Ostia. But though it was blessedly cooler the higher they climbed, the sun had wreaked havoc even here. The snows were melting, freeing the pass. Marcus could hear the rush of water and hoped the flood avoided any homes. With no one to talk to in the day, Marcus found himself singing, rude marching songs from the army or – once, before he caught himself and quickly fell silent – a Celtic harvest song Esca once taught him. At night, he rolled himself in his blankets and tried to sleep without missing the familiar heat at his back, the arm across his chest, the snuffle of a cold nose against his nape. He never succeeded.

Over the lip of the mountains and down the other side. Every day was more of the same, just one foot in front of the other, dried fruit and salted meat. Marcus might have killed for a drop of wine. It was a relief to see civilisation again. Augusta Taurinorum sat like a fat pancake upon the lower ground. Even at this distance, Marcus could see the heat shimmering over the city.

He had hoped, perhaps, that the last part of their journey would be the easiest. Brutus had settled into a steady pace, and even seemed to have come to some sort of understanding with his new master which didn't involving yanking his arms out of his sockets every time a tasty patch of grass came into view. It was still a vast distance – Marcus called up a mental map of the Empire memorised in childhood, and winced at the long stretch of Italia between he and his destination – but after the two weeks of healthy pasture he hoped to make good time.

He was wrong.

If the temperature in Gaul had been stifling, in Italia it was utterly unbearable. The roads were empty. No people milled about the towns on petty errands. What animals died in the fields were left there for carrion, but even wild birds were absent under the scorching sun. Marcus wiped sweat from his brow and plodded on, choking on dust and dry air. Every mile they gained felt like a mile closer to a great furnace, pulsing at the heart of the Empire.

Marcus stuck to the coast road, though it was less direct, for the small breeze offered by the sea. He drank gallons of water but could not quench his thirst. Brutus grew thinner. In the three weeks it took to walk from Augusta Taurinorum to Rome, passing through Genua, Pisae, and more, Marcus passed not a single other traveller on the road. It was as though the sun had burnt them all to cinders.

Wearied to the bone, Marcus looked up from his mindless observation of the road passing under Brutus' hooves on the afternoon of the _Festival of Satus_ , and saw the great imposing skyline of Rome before him. He huffed out a hoarse laugh. Brutus tossed his head in confusion at the odd noise. They had made it. They had finally reached Rome. Strange, then, that Marcus felt nothing but numbness inside. All those years fighting for honour, straining to earn the respect of this great city, seemed pathetic and worthless. He wished with all his aching heart that he was back in Britannia. This was not home anymore.


End file.
